Dead and Buried
by Lasympathetique
Summary: Stan Marsh and his family left South Park shortly after a pathogenic virus spread to North America, which causes the undead to rise and crave human flesh. Ten years later, Stan finds himself back in the place that was once his home, where memories and familiar faces lurk beneath the stirring dust.
1. Chapter 1

The broken, desolate streets of South Park were bathed a bloody red by the sinking sun. There was a breeze, high and cold, the shrill whistling sounding with prominence in the absolute silence of the abandoned town. Surely it had been ages since any sort of civilization had inhabited this place. There was a tension in the air, glistening like wires pulled taunt. _It would be almost peaceful,_ mused Stan Marsh, _if it weren't for all the bloody corpses cluttering the streets_.

Expertly, the boy pulled the steel baseball bat hanging from his belt. His movements were cautious and graceful; he surveyed his dismal surroundings like a dancer. Mangled bodies with gaping mouths and horrible, blank eyes lay in heaps, twisted over one another like discarded clothes. When Stan walked through them, a chorus of guttural moans rose into the air, and he realized that despite all appearances, these bodies were not _dead_. He gritted his teeth, advancing towards one and swiftly flung the weighted head of the metal bat into one groaner's brain. There was a sickly cracking as the skull shattered, dark liquid splattering like a dropped water balloon onto the streets and Stan's sneakers.

His actions heightened the noise as the undead picked up the scent of shed blood. They howled and reached for him weakly like starving children. Most were too decayed to even crawl, anchored by rotting limbs. The smell was putrid, thick in the air. Death. In the ten years since it first tainted the earth Stan had still not grown used to it. He wrinkled his nose, pulling the orange bandanna loosely tied around his neck over the lower half of his face. Continuing with a light step, he took great care to avoid the flailing bodies as he searched the abandoned streets for anything of use.

Water was first. Shifting the weight of his backpack from one shoulder to the other, he heard the precious, singular bottle of cool liquid slosh in its plastic container. It was too little for Stan's liking, especially with the recent circumstances. His throat was sore, he rubbed it anxiously with a gloved hand. Any other food would be good too. Medicine would be a godsend. There was a cut from a rusty fence that was beginning to look raw and infected on his forearm. If Stan hadn't died from a bite yet, he might just drop dead of disease. He coughed, mouth dusty and raw from thirst, but as long as he felt he was able to resist, he would not take a drink. _Tomorrow could always be worse, Marsh. _

A bitter taste rose in Stan's throat when he caught sight of one disfigured body half stuffed into a rusty garbage bin. The torso was rotted and writhing with maggots, whitish pieces of bone visible and protruding through ragged grey flesh. Scabby arms reached out, swiping at the air mindlessly. The face was sunken and half eaten, but still recognizable. Shock rooted Stan to the spot as his eyes darted over and over the grotesque _thing _that once was the father of his childhood friend.

The corpse of Gerald Broflovski snarled, teeth visible through missing pieces of skin. In death his beard was tattered and torn like a mess of cotton. Where his nose once was there was now a gaping, triangular hole. Horror amassed in Stan as he stared in disbelief. This was a face he had known as far as his memory went back. To see it so twisted and sickly brought Stan to gag. He stifled the sound in his glove and stepped back, retching. Memories flooded through him, seizing his consciousness, and behind his eyelids flickered the faint image of a smiling young boy with wild red hair and hazel eyes…

But no. The luxury of reminiscing was not one he could afford, not in these times. Forcing himself, he looked directly into the blank, milky eyes of the undead creature. This was not Gerald Broflovski anymore, he told himself. He could not bring himself to think about what might have, what must have become of the other residents of South Park. Familiar faces everywhere, but not a soul in sight.

_This is not Gerald Broflovski_

The words rang through Stan's mind as he hoisted his baseball bat with both hands high over his head, and brought it down with a sickening crunch.

Thank you for reading, I'll be updating soon!


	2. Chapter 2

It was easier than Stan would like to admit, looting the bodies of the dead. In the short time he had explored the ruins of his childhood home, he had been able to scavenge a new, sturdy pair of boots that were better suited for wilderness than his old track sneakers, a sleek looking jacket, and an old silver watch. The jacket was warm, black and made of leather. This was good, leather was one sonovabitch to chew through, even for a zombie. Stan knew it would afford him a bite or so without infection, useful if he ever found himself on the offense without weaponry. It fit Stan loosely, the shape of the jacket held by the stiffness of the fabric, but the length of the sleeves perfectly cuffed his wrists. He poked at his own torso ruefully. Food had been scarce these past few months, ever since Camp Colorado had gone to shit. One of the bastard shooters who patrolled the camps borders failed to report a bite he'd contracted one night out. Came back inside, went to sleep, and woke up dead. Stan remembered that night with snakes in his gut.

It had seemed like a nightmare, just one of the many since the infection was born. There were screams, and Stan had rubbed his eyes and blinked, peering wearily outside the flimsy flap of the tent he shared with other survivors. There had been Margret, Thatcher, and two other boys whose names he couldn't remember. All slept soundly, swaddled in thick blankets on cheap cots as Stan walked numbly to the tent opening, still foggy with sleep. The shock was startling, electric to his core. People were running, shrieking, carrying children and bouldering past one another with a brute ferocity Stan had never seen from sane humans before. Then he saw the ones behind the frenzied crowd, the ones with eyes that shone as blank as the full moon, with gaping maws and outstretched arms. Some still held the colour of life in their cheeks, draining slowly to ashen grey. These were fresh. Their legs could still run.

It was a sick twist of luck, there were so many bodies piled up and writhing over one another that the growing undead mass was hindered, tripping over splayed limps and crawling through thick mud. Stan did not think, but ran as fast as he could. Passing the supply tent, he snatched one of the loaded ranger packs meant for long distances, sliding the straps through his arms and securing the fastening around his waist. The weight was scarcely anything to him in his panic, blood thundering through him as he elbowed through others towards the far exit on the other side of the wire wall. It wasn't until he was on the other side that Stan remembered his roommates, still sleeping peacefully.

_No use dwelling on the past, Marsh, _he told himself sternly. _Nothing you can do about it now, so just keep on going. _Still, in his chest he felt a pinching sensation whenever the camp resurfaced in his mind. Pushing it from his mind, he journeyed on towards the empty stores downtown. Perhaps there would still be some canned goods, maybe even a water jug or two in some storage area.

The trek was short and familiar, walking down streets Stan had known since childhood. He navigated the town easily despite broken or missing street signs, always on his toes for any of the undead. His muscles were tense, his eyes sharp and alert as they darted over every nook and cranny that passed by. From the looks of it, South Park had been overrun at least five years ago. The decay of the bodies told him as much, but the buildings sang of abandonment as well. They sagged, crumbled and defeated with smashed in windows, weeds sprouting between bricks in an attempt to reclaim concrete and plaster to nature. Carefully, Stan placed his gloved hands on the exposed ledge of a large shattered front window and leapt through with ease. It was an old convenience store, remnants of food and drink smeared on the floor and walls. Stan scoured the shelves, collecting anything still in its original container and shoving it into his pack. He would sort through what was unspoiled when he was in a safer location that was not rife with infection.

Still, there was strangely less than Stan expected. Many shelves were bare, and in the broken coolers there was absolutely no water. He looked at the line-up of dark, fizzy soda and wanted to cry. The stuff was more available than water, but did absolutely nothing to quench thirst. After a good two weeks of surviving off the stuff, Stan was ready to wretch at the sight of it. _Why the fuck is fucking coca cola more available than water_, he thought bitterly as he picked through the different soda bottles. With reluctance he stuffed a bottle in each of the side pouches on his backpack, keeping in mind that at least the caffeine could prove valuable in a sticky spot. He toyed with the idea of taking the fire axe from the casing, but he owed his life to the metal bat in his right hand. Stan carried almost a tenderness for the weapon, growing attached to it like a dog or cat. It had not let him down since the day he picked it up, and in the broken ruins of the world it was about the only thing he trusted.

Unsatisfied, Stan zipped up his pack and ventured outside. Taking care to avoid the broken shards of glass, he stepped lightly. He ignored the looming possibility that South Park housed no survivors. Instead he scrutinized the higher floors of the nearby buildings for broken windows or other signs of weakness. It would do good to have a place to spend the night, especially with the sun creeping closer to the horizon. The air was turning cold, and Stan pulled the bulky leather jacket more snuggly around him. The sky was growing dark, and the night was deadly in this post-apocalyptic world. Stan did not know if it was his own paranoia or truth, but in the darkness the zombies seemed to move faster. They were smarter as well, pinpointing the fresh scent of living flesh with much more haste. Perhaps it was easier to pick out different scents in the night air, Stan theorized. Either way, shelter seemed like a good idea. Stan's feet ached, he found himself needing to look for shoes one size bigger than what he wore. Days of walking and running (when necessary) were taking their toll, harshly callousing his skin. Often he would kick off his shoes to find brownish bloody stains soaking his socks.

It was dark now, dangerously so. The air grew bitter, crisp autumn wind biting at Stan's nose. He walked for a while until he came across the old chapel. One of many in the white-bread red-neck town, its grand white exterior had made it singular amongst the other boxy buildings. Now, the steeped roof was missing shingles, and there were ugly cracks running along the grossly yellowish walls. The greenery of the front was overgrown and feral, curling around the front steps, weeds sprouting between slates. Cautiously, Stan stepped over the creak stairs with a cat-like grace, spinning on the balls of his feet with his arms spread wide for balance. The last thing he wanted was to attract any attention, and the night was so still that he felt even his own breath was too loud. Making it safely to the threshold, Stan placed his head to the rotting wooden doors and listened. There was no sound.

The door hinges creaked incessantly despite Stan's restraint, but it seemed that nothing had heard. The handle felt cold beneath his hand, unused for a long time. He entered the church to a mess of overturned pews and broken relics. The Stations of the Cross, a series of pictures depicting in gruesome detail the crucifixion of Jesus Christ, were scattered across the floor, torn and stained. Stan noticed one with Jesus' face scratched out completely, dark brown stains tainting the picture with a coffee filtering. So many times he had passed these pictures with his family, when his father did feel like honouring the Sabbath and going to church. Play at being a decent parent. He stared at it, a strange twinge in his heart like a sliver.

The broad, wooden alter was still intact. Around it lay scattered church paraphernalia, golden Eucharist bowls and white cloths, rosaries and tiny crossed Crucifixes. Dropping his weighted backpack like a stone beside the alter, Stan groaned as the knotted muscles in his shoulders screamed relief. He eased himself to sit on the flat, glossy surface and lay down, stretching his arms above him like a cat. The release was tremendous against his aching back, the hard wood seeming to realign a spine that had spent too many nights curled up in fear. His bones cracked and popped as he flexed, tingling up and down his back. Stan squeezed his eyes shut. His stomach rumbled, but he sternly willed it to shut the fuck up. Over the years, especially the independent ones, Stan learned to become harsh with himself in terms of physical necessity. There was no point to food if sleep was to follow right after. Sleep through the stomach pains, wake up, and nourish yourself enough to get through the day. One of his new commandments.

Jesus loomed over Stan, bronze eyes staring down with an air of judgement. The holy statue was fixed to a massive metal cross, melded to the front wall of the church just behind the alter. Stan stared back blankly, his face remaining impassive.

"Hey, Fucker." The words reverberated around the fragmented sanctuary, filling the empty air for a brief moment before fading to nothing.

Jesus said nothing. His bronze lips remained frozen in silent anguish, gleaming arms outstretched, hands pierced with bronze nails.

"Fucker," repeated Stan. A small heat ignited in his chest, spreading achingly to his fists. "You mother fucker. Thanks for nothing." He spat the words like snake venom. Bringing hands to rub his itching eyes, Stan felt wet tears springing forward. He cursed, sitting upward to wrap cross his legs and soak up the tears with his shirt. He unzipped his jacket, discarding it on the floor carelessly before exposing his lower belly to dry his face. The air was cold and Stan shivered, feeling small. Images of Gerald Broflovski assaulted his mind, and Stan could almost feel the cold hands closing around his naked waist, pulling his head downward. Cold, uneven teeth like broken stones sinking into his neck, bringing warm blood spurting to the surface. His screams would cut off into gurgles and he tried to flail away, knowing that of course it was already too late as his world faded to black.

Shaking the thoughts away, Stan jumped off the alter abruptly. It ought to be dark outside now, eerie groans sounded high. Stan took comfort in the fact that there was no tell-tale shuffling, and the sounds seemed distant and muted. Still, he was in far too spacious a place to be safe for sleeping, even with only main doors of the church closed. Grabbing his bag, Stan stuffed his precious survival pack into one of the confessional cubicles off to the side in a small alcove. He went into the adjoining stall, where confessors could pray away their sins while unseen priests listened from the other side. He lay down on the cushioned bench, knees tucked into his stomach. Biting his lip till iron tasted on the tip of his tongue, Stan fell asleep with trickling red down his chin, mingling with salty tears on the collar of some stranger's shirt two sizes too big for him.


	3. Chapter 3

The subtle thudding just beyond the prayer cubicle gave Stan a nasty jolt as it startled him awake. The breath caught in his throat as his heart pounded in his ribcage like a warm drum. Something was lurking in the sanctuary, something with enough strength to move and make noise. Stan reached for his bat, fingers curling around the familiar handle. He'd not time to recollect any dreams he might have had, they'd all fled his mind long since he regained consciousness. Doubtless they were nightmares anyways.

_Don't dwell. Stay in the present. _

Popping the leather collar to shield his neck just a little bit more, Stan gently pushed open the confession stall door with his lesser hand, the dominant poised to swing heavy metal at anything that rushed at him.

It was dim, like the church sanctuary was drawn with blurry charcoal, and silent. Stan crept close to the ground, his senses hyperaware. Gooseflesh covered his skin, but his breath was steady and soft. His thighs ached as he stole across the sanctuary.

There was a shuffling of footsteps, Stan listening intently and following their noise. Soon he could see a faint silhouette ahead of him, humanoid in shape. He crouched, gripping his bat with both hands and weighing it for momentum. With a sharp exhale he swung, the arc of metal travelling without fault through the air, sure of his swing until his ears caught another noise weaving through the air.

A small, musical humming.

Stan faltered, the shock throwing him off balance. At the same time the bat swung up the figure turned around. There was a resounding clang as Stan's swing cuffed the head of the figure, who then _screamed in terror_.

Stan yelled, horribly surprised. He jumped back, his pulse pounding, sweat dripping down his back. "What the fuck are you?!"

There was a sniffling, ragged breathing coming from the darkness. When the voice spoke, it was high with fear.

"P-p-please d-don't hurt me! I-I'm just looking for-for…" the voice trailed off into sobs.

Stan squinted, bat still firmly gripped in his hands. "You human?"

"Y-yeah…"

"You armed?"

There was stilted silence as the stranger took another series of sniffing gasps. "Please, let me g-".

"Do you have any fucking weapons on you?!" Stan gritted his teeth, senses on high alert.

"No! No, I don't have anything!"

Stan's breathing lightened, but his face was still twisted in an offensive snarl. "The fuck are you doin' then?"

"I'm-I'm just lookin' for food…the little communion crackers…"

Stan's stomach growled loudly. He stepped closer, trying to remain tough and assertive. The voice was almost certainly male, a teenager perhaps, with absolutely no guts. It should be easy to get the kid to show him where the crackers might be. Still, the comfort of light was something Stan yearned for. He wanted to see his surroundings.

"This is what you're gonna do. You're gonna show me where the food is, and you're gonna get the fuck out."

"I-I can't… I need it." The voice sobbed again, and trembled. However, there was a strength lingering beneath the words. "I have people…we're running out of food…"

Stan frowned. "How many." If there was a group hiding out somewhere in South Park, it explained the desperate lack of resources. It also meant that he was outnumbered, and if this kid went back complaining about the violent stranger with a metal baseball bat, that could mean trouble. He'd had experience with violent groups before. The cluster from Nebraska Stan had stumbled upon when he was fourteen weren't the type to take in a starving kid. Rather, they'd tied him to an old telephone pole as zombie bait so they could raid the undead-infested hospital for supplies. It was thanks to a previous incident involving a religious-obsessed couple in Kansas and their hungry mutt that Stan always carried a switchblade on the inside of his pants cuff, tucked into whatever shoes he happened to be wearing. As it turned out, he'd cut loose in time to scale up the pole, and remained perched like a bird while the blood of the Nebraskans was spattered beneath him.

"There's…um…"

The dark was agitating Stan, and his voice was an angry growl. "Are there any goddamn lights in here?" he demanded.

The stranger seemed thrown; Stan didn't blame him. "Uh, the lights in the office still work…last time I checked, I mean."

Jabbing his bat against the ground, the metal clanged imposingly against the wooden floors. "Keep talking. You're gonna lead me there, and we're gonna have a nice chat face t' face."

There was a nervous gulp. "O-okay." The stammer was back, and soon the stranger was stumbling in the dark around Stan.

Stan listened to the slow, deliberate footsteps of the kid as he blindly navigated the sanctuary. There was the jolting of a doorknob, and then the creaking of rusty hinges. Stan tapped ahead of him with his bat, being sure to step directly through the door and not into the wall. There was a fumbling of fingers against drywall, and then the room was filled with bright illumination. The light cut through Stan's eyes, forcing them to automatically squeeze shut. He blinked twice as the world slowly came back into focus, feeling like he was waking up from a dream. Or perhaps not, when his eyes fell upon the hauntingly young face looking wide-eyed at him.

The boy was shaking like a startled rabbit, no more than thirteen. His dark hair was cut short and unevenly, chopping bangs falling just above large hazel eyes. His skin was like milk, drained of colour, a dark smatter of freckles standing out on his gaunt cheeks. Stan deduced that the kid wasn't lying; he looked starved. His eyes darted nervously from Stan's face to the floor, hands fisted tightly in the front of his sweatshirt.

A strange feeling of pity stirred within Stan, mixed with distain. The kid looked so fucking _weak. _Little more than a zombie chew toy.

"Shit kid, you look fucked."

The boy's face went blank, then contorted into a restrained scowl. "Th-that's hardly any of your business." He shoved his hands in his pants pockets.

"No, seriously," Stan leaned casually onto the desk that stood in the centre of the priest's office, baseball bat pointing amiably towards the floor. "How old are you? Ten?"

"Twelve, actually." The tension in the room slowly dwindled as the words the boy said held a glint of sass. His thin body was still tensed, but no longer shaking. "Thirteen in a few months."

Stan laughed. "You're keeping track?"

"Yes."

Stan was impressed. To the best of his knowledge, it was somewhere between August and November.

"So, this is the part where I decide what to do with you."

The kid's eyes went round. He held up his hands, fear rooting him to the spot. "I told you, I don't want any trouble."

"Yeah, _I_ know that." Stan stepped closer. "And _you _know that. But I'm not so sure what the rest of your _friends _will think when you tell them about me."

At his words the boy inhaled sharply, the faint hint of an Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed his fear. "They know I'm missing, they'll come looking for me if I don't come back."

"Oh, they will?"

"Yeah," the boy nodded, desperation slowly washing into a fierceness Stan was surprised to see. "I've got a brother back at the hideout, and I know for a fucking _fact _that if I die, he won't stop at anything to find out what happened. And he'll find you."

Stan's top lip curling into an ugly smile. "You think so?"

"I do. He's smart. Plus, there's more of them than there is of you. Killing me off isn't really your best option, eh?" The kid's tone grew more relaxed as he fell into the rhythm of what Stan was ninety-nine percent sure was a bluff.

Stan weighed his bat gently in his palm. "So you think I should just…let you go?"

"Unless you want a pack on your trail, yeah. I do."

Stan pursed his lips in a mocking show of thought. "Hmm. Well then, I guess you've left me no choice." His face smoothed out, dangerously unreadable.

Then with the reflexes of a jungle cat he lunged at the boy, pinning him against the wall with his forearm pressed over the skinny throat.

The boy barely had time to yell before he was choked off. His spidery hands clawed frantically at Stan's arm, catching no purchase against the thick leather. Stan gritted his teeth, grabbing the boy's fingers and forcing them behind his back. Elbowing the boy's jaw, Stan looking straight into his terrified face. Paling lips struggled to mouth words, but Stan ignored them.

"You think you're some fucking tough guy, huh? Let me tell you something," Stan's voice was low, but he spat the words like venom, leaning his face forward until he was inches from the boy's nose. "You don't know shit. Okay, so you got people? Fucking mommy and daddy watchin' out for you while you sneak off in the middle of the night because you're hungry? For fucking _communion cookies_? I don't fuck around. I've been through some awful, _horrible _shit. And now you're telling me to get the fuck out?! I GREW UP HERE!"

The words resounded in the empty office space. Stan realized he was shaking, anger pumping through his veins. The boy's face was turning purple, his limbs going limp.

Immediately Stan backed off. The room was electric, pulsating.

The boy coughed, saliva dripping down his chin. He grabbed at his throat, stroking it desperately. There was a stiff silence. Then the boy cleared his throat.

_"__S-so…so did I..."_

The words were so soft Stan could scarcely hear them.

Stan felt as though his stomach was full of twisted coat hangers. "What?"

"I grew up here in South Park. Even before all the apocalypse shit went down."

"You're fucking with me. No one's left. They all turned…years ago."

"No," said the boy softly, "Some of us…we survived, kind of. If you can really call what we do surviving…"

Stan could not believe his ears. His head was pounding.

"Wha…what's your name?"

Another phlegmy cough came from the boy's throat. His eyes were wet. He looked carefully into Stan's eyes.

"Um…Ike. Ike Broflovski."


	4. Chapter 4

The astonishment shattered over Stan like a window smashed through his head. He looked at the boy again, speechless. It seemed that his tongue was unable to form words it was so numbed in shock. The world was frozen, and suddenly Stan could see it. The resemblance between three year old Ike Broflovski and the bone-thin teen before him was minimal, but there. He recognized Ike's small, upturned nose, round chin, wide ears, the sharp apples of his cheeks. Reminders of the smiley toddler from his childhood memories all that time ago. Malnutrition forced a maturity upon his face and a hollowness to his eyes, and it seemed most of the joy had been sucked out of the boy years ago. But there was no doubt in Stan's mind that Ike Broflovski was who he said he was.

"…Ike…" Stan felt like he was in a dream. His hands uncurled around the baseball bat handle and it fell to the ground, clanging meaninglessly. Staggering forward, Stan grabbed Ike by his wrists and pulled him up, gazing senselessly upon his face. He stood taller than Ike, his own chin barely topping the boy's hairline. Daring himself, he touched the boy's cheek with his palm, half afraid it would evaporate to mist in his hand.

Ike flinched away. Stan withdrew his hand, regretting his actions. The kid looked completely freaked out.

"What the fuck was that?!"

Stan looked at him intensely, realization surmounting in him and crackling like lightning. "You…you have a brother. An older brother…" his breath quickened, "…with a fucking crazy red Jew-fro and…and beat every song on Guitar Hero, expert mode. Loves basketball. Green eyes. Green hat."

The expression on Ike's face was of pure shock and awe. Bewildered, he squinted at Stan. Stan felt like he was being x-rayed through to his soul with the way Ike's hazel eyes burned through him.

"How did you…" Then his jaw dropped.

"_Stan Marsh_?"

A laugh erupted from Stan. He nodded, the world still dazed and dim around him.

Looking him up and down, Ike's eyes grew. "You changed, man. Holy shit…I mean…holy _shit_…"

"Yeah," The feelings surmounting inside Stan were foreign, but tremendous. "It's been a while."

"We thought…we thought you were dead. Kyle, holy shit, Kyle's gonna shit a brick…" Looking like an excited puppy, a wide grin spread across Ike's face. It brought out dimples that Stan thought to be utterly adorable.

Stan spread his arms and pulled Ike to his chest, squeezing him tightly. He felt Ike's thin arms wrap around him, hugging back with equal vigour. The movement, the warmth of another human, everything felt alien to him. But every cell in his body ached to soak in this moment for eternity.

Eventually Stan gave Ike a few strong pats and let go. His eyes burned, and something was catching in his throat. Ike laughed, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

Ike shook his head in disbelief, the etchings of laughter still on his face. "I can't…I can't believe this. We heard about Camp Colorado, the infestation. We thought…"

"Yeah. Me too." Stan kept an arm on Ike's shoulder, holding it warmly. "I thought South Park was fucked after we left. I just…assumed everyone was dead. I didn't really _think _to…to hope that anyone had made it."

Ike frowned suddenly. "You're on your own now." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah. Yeah, my family, they…" A sudden old pain panged through Stan's chest. "…they died about half-way up. A zombie got Shelley, and…and Dad couldn't let go. He got bit when she turned, so me and Mom booked it. We ran, and then Mom tripped, and, well…" He laughed humourlessly "Then there was one."

"God, Stan…I'm so sorry." Ike's eyes glistened, and he put his hand over Stan's. "That's messed up. This whole thing….fucking zombies…it's messed up."

Stan swallowed. "Yep."

"We've lost people too… I mean, everyone but us turned a long time ago…." Ike suddenly looked up, panicked. "I don't mean to make it like you didn't lose people! It's just, I get it. It's just been me, Kyle, and the others for the last…" Ike blew a stream of air out his mouth, "…eight years…? Yeah."

Stan nodded, a pit growing in his stomach. He could still hear Gerald Broflovski's strangled groan ringing in his ears, the drained face haunting his eyes.

"I guess we've all lost people."

Ike nodded solemnly. Then he smiled. "But not you. After all this time…we still had you."

Stan laughed. The past ten years had been fixated on surviving on his own, meeting people and losing them just as quickly. They carved him like a knife, leaving him scared and torn. But still here. That ought to count for something.

"Guess so," said Stan. He ruffled Ike's hair. "Shit kid. You sure fucking grew while I was gone."

Ike glanced down bashfully. "Well, it's been a while. I haven't been eating the best, but Kyle's always made sure I've gotten enough. He's a hard-ass mom."

At Kyle's name, Stan felt an electric tingling spread over his palms. "Where is he?"

"Kyle?"

"It's been so long…I don't know if he'd even recognize me."

"Dude, of course he will! From the sounds of it you guys were thick as fucking thieves."

Stan felt the dullest flicker of warmth fill his chest. "He talks about me?"

Ike rolled his eyes. "Only all the fucking time. I gotta say, you're much less of a pussy in real life than he makes you out to be."

"In grade four I was a fucking pussy. Now I'm a motherfucking badass bitch."

"Yeah…for a second I thought you were gonna kill me." Ike said the words with humour, but his mouth twitched over the word _kill_.

Stan encompassed Ike in a one-armed hug. He grinned, trying to shake the hardness that had settled permanently on his face. "I wouldn't have. Not a kid, not you. God, never you, Ike."

Ike looked sceptical, but he managed a smile and returned Stan's gesture.

"So…you wanna go see Kyle? He's awfully different now…not that I remember him much before."

Stan grinned madly. He barely heard Ike's words, just nodded vigorously in agreement with seeing the face of his once-upon-a-time best friend.

"Yes. Fucking _yes_."

* * *

><p>Thank you so much for reading, I know this is another short one! It's just that characters talking is probably my favorite thing ever.<p>

EDIT:Thank you thank you to the reviewer who pointed out that I had written the wrong name! Sharon most certainly did not die twice, though this would be the one fic where an author could get away with that sort of thing.

I also want to say, thank you so everyone who has reviewed. I realize you're gonna get an update in your email and it'll be just one changed word. Sorry about that guys. Your reviews have been so positive and encouraging, I appreciate it tenfold!


	5. Chapter 5

They decided to wait until dawn, as difficult the decision to wait was for Stan. Sitting side by side against the wall opposite the door, in case of intruders, they passed time by talking. Ike told Stan about how South Park first became infected. It had begun about three months after the first official report of infection in North America occurred. It was unclear who first was infected, but the real chaos began when a teacher at the South Park middle school lumbered into class freshly turned. Everyone inside, students and teachers, was infected. The trickledown resulted in over three hundred undead unleased upon the unsuspecting citizens. Ike recounted being carried by ten year old Kyle onto the roof of South Park Elementary, watching the bloodshed occur a story beneath them in the streets.

"It seems so unreal. Like…Kyle was holding me, and I was crying, and there was screaming _all around us_… I remember thinking that this can't be happening, but Kyle was scared, and that made me scared…" Ike shuddered, the handgun Stan had given him shaking in his hands.

Stan's hands were firmly clenched around his bat, but he loosened one for a precious second to rub Ike's shoulders in what he hoped was a comforting manner.

Taking a rattling breath, Ike continued. "I don't remember much after that… it was everyone from our class, plus the other grades, a few teachers….we were locked up in the school for about two weeks…then people started, I don't know, going crazy. You remember Mr. Garrison? He shot a bunch of the third graders, and then he shot himself. Fuck…we didn't even know he had a gun."

The colour drained from Stan's face, and he felt sick.

"So then, the bodies came back because Garrison didn't fucking know to get the brain, and loads of others got turned. I just kinda turned my brain off while Kyle saved both of us, 'cause next thing I remember is having the police station as our shelter. Kyle was ten, and he was trying to load this massive gun with bullets…" Ike trailed off. His eyes gazed off into the distance, immersed in the vivid memory invisible to Stan.

Stan shifted uncomfortably. The room was growing lighter, sunlight piercing through the ragged shutters hanging over the windows. He hadn't expected any of this, this horrid immersion of the past. It was like a bad drug trip, the constant nausea, sweaty palms, intense underlying terror of the reality surrounding him. It was almost too much.

Stan stood up abruptly. "It's light out. We should probably get going."

"Oh, uh, yeah." Following suit, Ike readjusted the handgun in his grasp and stayed close as Stan carefully opened the door to the sanctuary.

The room was stiff with anticipation as Stan and Ike stole carefully across the floor. Stan's senses were on high alert, his fingers twitching at every creak Ike made behind him.

"Kid, be quiet," he hissed.

Ike winced, the gun awkwardly cradled in his hands. He stayed close, sticking to Stan like a shadow. Together they reached the opening of the church.

Stan turned to Ike expectantly. "So, where are we headed?" he asked, his voice hushed.

Ike glanced around nervously, as though he was expecting undead hands to clasp around him at any moment. The kid really must not have been out much, Stan realized. Zombies were loud, they shuffled and groaned as they made their way to the nearest living flesh.

Ike cleared his throat. "We're set up over at the old convenience store, the one with the gas station. It's not too far from here-"

"I know where the convenience store is," said Stan, picking up his pace and taking the lead. Ike's words fumbled off awkwardly, and the young boy fell in step behind him.

Ike seemed to be able to predict where the undead were lurking, directing Stan through the broken maze of South Park's downtown. The kid's senses were good; better than good. It was obvious what growing up in such a hostile environment had done for the boy. He'd elbow Stan and whisper, "There's two that way…we gotta duck around the alley…" before Stan even heard the beginnings of a groan. Ike's instincts had been groomed so young that they were ingrained within him, like language. Stan had to admire his stealth, moving in ways that seemed far too mature and refined for a twelve year old boy.

It wasn't long before Stan could see the offset, broken looking silhouette of the distance store. The whole building tilted precariously to the left, the walls peeled and cracked from years of abandonment. It was about the size of a small house, only one story, but when Stan squinted upwards he could see a battered hole poking through the roof. Two ladder tips peeked out, and the various supplies lead Stan to believe that someone, Kyle even, had had the foresight to make the roof a sanctuary in the event of an infestation.

Here Stan faltered, letting Ike take the lead. The gangly boy stepped with confidence, over bits of broken glass and around rusted car parts. The garbage and clutter slowly built up as they approached their destination. Stan noticed a peculiar pattern to the debris, the bodies of cars and massive tires staggered, making it difficult to walk with confidence. Ike switched directions smoothly, seemingly familiar with the makeshift maze. Shortly they arrived at what appeared to be the end, marked by two opposing wooden panels resting against stacks of tires.

The gas station looked beat up, but habitable. Ike approached the door. Stan's heart stopped in his chest. His legs rooted to the ground. Ike didn't notice until his hand was on the door knob. He turned around and smiled.

"It's okay, they've already seen you," said Ike casually. "We always have someone posted to watch for trouble through the windows."

Ike's words did not make Stan feel better.

"They've _seen _me?"

Ike began to turn the knob. "Yeah, but it's not a big deal. You're with me, and I'm obviously at ease, so they'll know you're an okay guy."

Stan shrugged and opened his mouth, but before he could form a retort the door was thrust open from the inside. Ike flung back in shock, arms flailing.

"What the _fu-_"

But before he could finish his sentence, Ike was violently pulled inside by a pair of mysterious hands. Stan immediately backed up, dropping his bat and automatically slipping his dagger out from his boots. His pulse raced, the breath escaping from his mouth with the anticipation of a fight. He heard shouting from within the house, then the thunder of footsteps.

Two figures stepped out. The first was tall and blonde, his face edged and hardened like a razor. His eyes were a frightening blue, narrowed in aggression. In his hands he clutched a rifle, aimed directly at Stan. The girl was blonde too, her hair framing her face in a frizzy bob. With both hands she held her pistol, keeping her body level as she moved. Her full lips were curled into a sneer.

"Drop it," said the girl, motioning to Stan's dagger with her gun.

Stan's eyes darted from her to the boy. There was still yelling emitting from the convenience store. It seemed unlikely that Ike had gotten a word in.

Raising his hands slowly over his head, Stan backed up. "You better put those guns down before someone gets killed."

The boy laughed, a surprisingly pleasant sound like a ringing bell. "Is that supposed to be a threat?" he asked, stepping forward.

Stan reacted by taking another step back. His instincts told him that there was no way he could hope to fight and win, not while both of these strangers had trained guns on him. He didn't want to gamble on the chance that either was a bad shot; their movements and confidence hinted to Stan that both had been very comfortable around guns for a very long time.

Stan cleared his throat. "Just put the guns down. You're gonna do something you'll regret."

The girl scoffed. "Like we haven't regretted anything before. Believe me," she said, eyes cold and emotionless, "I'm very good at blocking out my regrets. Not that killing you would be one of them."

"How about you shut up and let me talk for a second, Blondie?" snapped Stan, momentarily forgetting his situation. "I know the kid, Ike. I know his brother. So if you shot me, things could get pretty hairy for you, 'cause from what I hear, Kyle's running everything."

Blondie sneered. "So you know his brother. What the fuck does that prove exactly, that you talked to him for five minutes? He's a kid, a naive kid who doesn't understand the basic concepts of stranger-danger yet, 'cause we're all too busy fighting the fucking zombies to teach him about pieces of shit like you."

"Sorry, when did I become a piece of shit? Before or after I brought the kid home safely?"

The boy advanced towards Stan like he was prey, keeping the gun raised. "You're a raider," he said, the mouth of the gun hovering near Stan's nose.

Stan could smell the salty metal, and fear pricked through him. "No, I'm just a survivor like you," he said carefully, switching rails. "Talk to Ike, he'll tell yo-"

The gun jabbed Stan sharply between his eyes, cold metal pressing against his skin. "You don't talk, don't say anything until we get this sorted. Otherwise you'll be chewing on a bullet. And don't you fucking talk about Ike."

Stan stiffened. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow, dampening his undershirt. The boy's expression said that he was deadly serious, a snarling mixture of aggression and fierce defence. He was positively shaking with emotion, and Stan saw his opening.

He brought the flat side of his blade down on the rifle, redirecting its aim to the ground. The boy stumbled forward, off-balance. Stan brought up his knee, catching the boy violently somewhere around his throat. Swiftly he grabbed the boy's arms and secured them in his own, his other hand clutching the jagged dagger to the boy's neck. He pressed the sharp blade just enough to break skin, and dark crimson dribbled out weakly. The girl remained where she stood, but her face was twisted with rage.

Stan glared at her. "You pull that trigger, he dies."

To Stan's surprise, the girl smiled. Her eyes glinted like marbles. "Why don't you just save me the effort and do it yourself."

Stan blinked. "Do what? Kill him?"

"Why not?"

Stan was at a loss for words. The boy wasn't struggling, but he didn't seem frightened either. His eyes were closed, almost as if he had already accepted the inevitability of death. It was baffling, the kid couldn't have been a year older than Stan himself…

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" he shouted, shaking in outrage. "What are you guys, some kind of cult?! How can you expect him to die?" Stan jabbed at the girl with his dagger. "And you're just gonna let me kill you? What's _wrong_ with you?" he shook the boy, still securely holding both his arms behind him, keeping him incapacitated.

The boy shrugged beneath him. "It's funny…"

"What?! What's funny?! You're gonna fuck Ike up, get him killed by your stupid fucking cult!"

"No," the boy muttered. Then, he lifted his head. "Any raider who knew his shit would have slit my throat already."

"So? So I'm not a fucking murderer."

The boy shook his head, his blonde hair bouncing gently. "This guy's not dangerous. He's not a raider. Bebe, put the gun down."

The girl scoffed. "Are you dumb?"

The boy grimaced. "Maybe."

Bewildered, Stan poked the blade at the boy's throat. "What the fuck kinda game are you guys playing!?" he demanded.

"Put down the knife and we can figure something out," the boy urged.

"I'm not an idiot. Get Blondie to put down the gun and we can talk."

The girl smirked condescendingly as she readjusted her aim. "Aw, you're cute, hun. Drop the knife and maybe I won't blow your brains out."

"Fuck you."

That stung the girl; her smile slowly contorted into a snarl. "I'd watch my fucking manners if I were you," she spat, her voice hardened.

"Don't do it…" the boy mumbled again. Stan was unsure if the words were directed at him or the girl, until he heard the clinking sound of a cocking gun.

The girl's finger was curled around the trigger, the barest of pressure placed upon it. Her face was smooth and blank, like a lioness closing in on her prey. "This is your last chance."

Stan pressed the silver blade to the boy's throat. A harrowed gasp told him that blood was drawn, and though this wound would be superficial, it would take little more for Stan to open the boy's jugular. "I will kill you," he muttered intently. "Call her off, now."

"She's not gonna listen to me, dude-"

"Then make her!"

"I have ears, you piece of shit," growled the girl. Her hand trembled.

The blond boy groaned. "Please, don't…"

Stan's muscles felt hot and alive, pumping through him. He felt his pulse beat against the handle of the dagger, sweat forming on his palms. The blade pressed closer. The boy hissed, inhaled throatily, and Stan could feel him shaking. Still, the boy didn't struggle.

_Flex_

"Bebe, NO!"

* * *

><p>Ahahah, I'm so sorry<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

Gunshot blasted through Stan's ears and he recoiled, throwing himself on the ground and pulling the boy down with him. The air was thick as dust was thrown about in the air, the bitter smell of gunpowder clogging Stan's nostrils. His mind was blank, white. He tried to figure out whether or not he had been hit. There was no pain, but that meant very little. Still his arm was wrapped around his blonde hostage, ridiculously spooning him on the dirt ground. Struggling to sit up, Stan violently pulled the boy in front of him as a human shield.

"The FUCK was that?!"

There was screaming, Ike's voice caught up in all the sound commotion and standing out in Stan's ears. He called out, "Ike! Ike!"

More yells filled the air with panic and fury. The world seemed hyper, pulsating around Stan and spinning wildly out of control. He clutched the boy, his hostage, tightly to his chest like a children's toy, drawing the knife closer. He had to do something, before they shot him, killed him…his hand quivered, the slight give of flesh pressing against his blade too weakly…

"EVERYONE SHUT UP!"

A voice roared over the chaos. Regaining his senses, Stan gasped. He re-clutched his knife, moving it so the blade pressed flatly against the boy's throat. Now if he twitched, at least he wouldn't spill this boy's blood into the dirt.

He peered through the risen dust, clouding like fog in the air. As it settled he saw a cluster of unrecognizable figures ahead of him. There was a smaller figure clinging to a taller one, his dark hair and slight figure making him instantly recognizable to Stan.

"Ike, Ike!" called Stan. "Are you okay?"

The taller figure's head turned in Stan's direction, and a strange feeling spread over Stan, like his limbs had been turned to jelly. As the figure drew closer Stan was able to make out the features of the stranger through the dust, slim limbs, a prominent nose, springy hair curled around his scalp that bounced with every gangly step…

And it was like Stan was suddenly plunged into a dream. He felt his heart racing, but without the bitter taste of fear beneath his tongue. He couldn't move, his body would not move. He merely sat there in the dirt as Kyle Broflovski walked towards him, shimmering like a mirage in the dust.

Stan had reimagined him countless times, when the absence of his best friend was a constant ache in his side. He'd wondered about Kyle, what sort of a person he would have grown up into, _if _he was still living… He'd imagined a handsome boy with emerald eyes, luminous with intelligence. Slender, he'd always been a slight child, but filled out with lean muscles. Clean, trimmed, deep red hair with maybe the barest hint of scruff. A kind face. A soft smile.

Now Stan could see that he had gotten it all wrong. The boy before him was tall, but that was as far as the resemblance went. He lurched and swayed like a scarecrow, his plaid shirt flooding over his body. Scrawny like Ike, like so many of the other survivors here seemed to be. His hair was unevenly cut and faded, like the colours on a piece of over-washed cloth. Worst of all were his eyes. They were the sharp green of Stan's memory, but they were cold and glinted like emeralds. They peered down at Stan with a clinical curiosity, as though Stan were a lab rat.

"Who are you?" asked Kyle. Though his words were soft, they sent a chill rushing down Stan's spine.

"W-what?"

Kyle stepped closer, forcibly holding Ike behind him with by his forearm. "Who the _fuck _are you, and _why do you know the name Stan Marsh_?"

Ike was looking at him, worry wrought in his face. He shot Stan a desperate look of apology, clearly shocked by the gravity of his group's reaction. Stan cursed himself. Ike was a kid, he probably naively thought they'd all sit down and pow-wow it out until Stan was welcomed with open arms.

Ike said something to Stan, but Stan barely noticed. His attention was absorbed by the boy in front of him, not two metres from where he sat. This boy, who he didn't know was alive until last night, who was thought to be dead for ten years.

"Kyle…" the word floated up from Stan's throat. There was a balloon tightening in his chest, seconds from bursting. "It's me."

The blonde hostage inhaled sharply. "…Stan?"

Kyle blinked and squinted, confusion warring in his face. Then he became outraged.

"_Stan's dead!_"

Stan froze.

"I don't know who you are," continued Kyle, stepping closer and dragging Ike with him, though he hardly seemed aware he still clung to the young boy, "but you're one sick motherfucker. How did you know his name? Did Ike tell you?" Kyle turned abruptly behind him. "_Did you tell him?!"_

Ike shook his head, tears springing into his eyes. "No! Please, Kyle, it's him! It's him, I swear-"

"Shut up."

The girl had regained her cool, it seemed. Lips pursed in concentration, she had the gun aimed once again at Stan. "We heard about the Marshes, see. All turned on the way to C.C. Then C.C got fucked. There's no way anyone survived that."

"You're wrong," said Stan tremulously. He turned to Kyle, staring with all his might in the hopes that in the hazel eyes there would flicker a speck of recognition. "It's me. Kyle, please, it's me." His voice caught with emotion, choking the words out. "Kyle, Kyle please…"

"Fuck this," said the girl.

"No, Bebe."

Kyle stared back at Stan, bewildered. The harshness drained from his face and he looked helpless, pale. He seemed to be shaking.

Stan's arms dropped, and the blonde boy scrambled to his feet. He turned to face Stan, his mouth gaping open. "Kyle, dude…I don't think he's lying."

Stan stood up to meet Kyle's eyes. Shadows of doubt were cast over his hazel eyes, but his bottom lip quivered with emotion. Staring into the flecks of gold, Stan willed his voice to be strong and sure.

"Dude, it's me…I swear…" Stan's voice cracked. "…you gotta believe me…please…it's me."

Kyle looked torn. He glanced down. "I…I can't believe you unless you have proof."

"Um…the last birthday party you had…" Stan thought hard. He had repressed the memories of before for so long, shying away from the searing pain and want they stirred up. Yet still, somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, visions of a younger, happier time glimmered like hidden diamonds.

"…we went to that place, that Spanish place with the cliff divers and puppet shows…and that stupid fucking song. _Da dada da-da…" _ Stan trailed off, feeling stupid.

"…Casa Bonita," whispered Kyle.

Stan looked up.

Kyle's face was pale, his eyes staring through Stan's own with an entirely different light. "You motherfucker…" He shook his head. Beside him Ike beamed, his smile entirely too big for his skinny face. "All this time, you…you're…"

Stan laughed. "Yeah."

"Oh my god."

"Yeah."

And unable to help it, Stan wrapped his arms around Kyle and pulled the scrawny boy close. Stan felt a wetness roll down his cheeks, and he realized he was crying. It was all he could do to curl his fingers into the back of Kyle's shirt and hug him back. His breath wracked uncontrollably, sobs cracking unwittingly from his throat. Not for ten years had he felt such a glowing warmth kindle from within. The feeling spread, thawing throughout Stan's body and warming his blood.

He vaguely heard the blonde girl pitching a fit somewhere near the house. The blonde boy seemed to be trying to sooth her, speaking unintelligible words in a low voice. He didn't care. Ten long years he'd been on his own, fighting and killing and surviving his own stories. He'd never dared to dream that he'd one day find someone to share them with. But here Kyle was, not a hair's breadth away, close enough to breathe softly against Stan's ear. It was all so real and tangible, like colour splashed into a black-and-white film. Stan's heart beat; his eyes closed.

He clung to the red-headed, skin-and-bones, weathered teen, and felt home.

* * *

><p>This is where I planned on ending the story, but then I wrote more material anyways! So if you want, you can call this an open ending. But I will be posting more, and, honestly, I have lots of ideas that I want to see play out.<p>

Thank you thank you, as always, to you reviewers and readers for nurturing my creativity baby :)


	7. Chapter 7

"So who the fuck are you?" asked the blonde girl, rudely pulling Stan out of his happy fog.

Stan withdrew from Kyle, still keeping his hands on Kyle's shoulders. "I'm Stan. Stan Marsh." He couldn't find it in himself to bear any animosity towards this girl; he was too elated. "I lived here until about ten years ago. I was in Kyle's class."

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't remember you."

Stan shrugged. "Hey, I've never seen your face before, so-"

"But you totally have!" the blonde boy interrupted. "You went to class with all of us. That's Bebe Stevens. Bebe, that's the guy who used to date Wendy back in fourth grade." He pointed back and forth, addressing each of them.

At Wendy's name, Stan felt a funny fluttering in his chest. "Wendy! Is she- I mean-"

Stan trailed off when he saw the faces of everyone around him darken. A pit grew in his throat.

"O-oh…"

The blonde boy shrugged. "Yeah…" he said sadly, "But she didn't suffer. Not for long."

Stan nodded dimly. He looked into Kyle's eyes, and saw that they were filled with apology.

"She didn't get bit, she saved us," said Kyle softly, "There was a hoard, and we were trapped inside the hospital. She made a run for it. Cut herself so they'd have a scent to follow, and booked it. If it wasn't for her…we wouldn't be here right now." Kyle said finally.

"Once we were safely on the rooftop, we saw her backing into an alleyway, zombies coming at her from all sides…there was no way she would have made it," murmured Kyle. "We saw…we all saw her pulling her gun, and she-"

Kyle paused to look into Stan's eyes.

"She chose not to become one of them."

Stan felt hollow, strange. "I-I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't, you left us years ago," snarled Bebe.

The remark stung Stan. He whirled around. "Not by choice, you stupid bitch!"

"Chill, everyone!" asserted the blonde boy. "We can't fight one other, not if we want to survive this thing."

Stan still felt fire, but it was covered by Kyle's hands clasping in his own. He realized his hands had been curling into fists around the fabric on Kyle's shoulders, squeezing tightly. Inhaling, he forced himself to relax.

Distracting himself, he turned to the boy. "And you, what's your name."

"You don't remember…?" The boy looked disappointed, slightly forlorn.

"Hey man, it's been a while."

The boy nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I suppose…well, I'm Leopold," he declared, holding out his hand for Stan to shake.

Stan raised a brow. "Leopold?" he said incredulously, while receiving a warm, rather violent shake from the blonde.

"Yep. But I guess everyone called me 'Butters' back in elementary school. Heck if I know why."

A light flickered on in Stan's head, and he recalled the small, air-headed child that would often trip over himself in the efforts to help others. A smiling boy with a face like a ray of sunshine, who had often been the butt of the bullies' jokes.

Now, the light was dimmed somewhat, but it was still tangible in the nervous smile Butters gave Stan, twinkling behind his baby blue eyes. Stan smiled back, comforted by yet another familiar face.

"Yeah, Butters!" he exclaimed, "I _do _remember you…we never really hung out, did we?"

Butters shrugged. "Nah, I mean, we did a few things together. It was mainly just the four of you, though."

"The four of us…" The words tickled at Stan's brain. A grin spread across his face, surprising himself. "God, that seems so long ago."

Kyle nodded seriously. "Ten years is a long time. It was weird, when you left. Even after all the chaos died down, it didn't feel right without you."

It sounded horrible, and made Stan regret having left his friends behind when trouble struck. But deep down Stan was very happy to hear that his absence had such an impact on the group. This whole time, even without him knowing, he had mattered to somebody.

Still, thinking of the others propagated a sickly question stirring in his gut. Tentatively, he cleared his throat.

"So, the others…are they…?"

"They're alive," said Kyle quickly. A small smile toyed on his lips, the most emotion than Stan had seen from him so far. "Fucking Christ…you've got so many people to see."

Ike was smiling like the proudest kid in the world. "I told you, Kyle."

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you were right. This time."

Stan looked at the convenience store. It seemed worryingly small, only able to properly house ten people at the most. "Are the rest all inside?"

Kyle nodded, "Mostly." He turned to Butters. "Go tell the others that we're okay, we've got a person up for discussion," said Kyle, his voice ringing in a crisp, authoritative manner. Butters immediately went into the store, his unquestioned obedience strange to Stan.

"Wow, you really are the boss here," Stan realized aloud, more so to himself than to the people around him. Only Ike seemed to hear, as Kyle was now giving orders to Bebe. Smiling kindly, Ike approached Stan to utter something softly to him.

Stan leaned down to hear the words in secret. "Dictator, more like, but you didn't hear it from me."

Stifling a laugh, Stan rolled his eyes. Kyle was recapturing everyone's attention, snapping his fingers above his head.

"Hey, dude." He looked directly at Stan. "Stay on your toes until the situation's explained. The people in there, they're not the same people they were ten years ago," Kyle's brow furrowed troublingly. "They know betrayal. Once a guy's experienced betrayal, it taints every about how they interact with people in the future."

Stan nodded solemnly. Betrayal was something he knew all too well about.

Kyle led Stan to the front steps, and as Stan looked up at them, a peculiar feeling surmounted in his stomach. More than anticipation, _apprehension_. There was nothing to do but steel himself and follow Kyle's bobbing red hair through the door.

* * *

><p>Thank you for your encouragement, dear readers. This fic is incredibly fun to write, and I'm so happy you all get something out of it too!<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

The room was dimly lit, candles flickering eerily on table tops provided little illumination. As Stan's eyes adjusted, he saw that all the windows were boarded up with long sheets of plywood. The sloppy overlap of boarding and rusty nails sticking out like wilted flowers implied to Stan that the work had been done hastily, during a time of emergency. It was hardly a stretch of the imagination to think of what might have given rise to the crisis. There was a musty, lived-in odour that permeated throughout the room, though not unpleasant. It gave the room an air of comfort, if not adding an element of claustrophobia, as though one was underground in some sort of animal den.

As he peered and squinted around the room, initial confusion overtook Stan. The room seemed empty, save for some beaten, mismatched furniture. It didn't look like a convenience store, more like the oversized storage room of a Nostradamus-obsessed hoarder. Various guns and rifles were stashed in bizarre places around the room; some sticking out of the bottoms of couches, others resting delicately inside broken drink freezers. There was no food Stan could see, but plenty of water bottles littered the place. Upon closer inspection, Stan realized that not all the water bottles contained strictly water. Some were filled with a thick, greenish blood, others with what looked merely like piss.

Kyle stepped forward and said, to Stan's confusion, "No crow, just fog. No crow, just fog." He announced the words loudly, almost reassuringly. Stan glanced over at him, confused and slightly humoured. Kyle's face remained passive, as though he was expecting the words to invoke something.

Slowly, as though queued by the peculiar phrase, figures rose from behind one of the overturned couches at the far end of the room. There were about five of them, from what Stan could see. Each of them clutched some sort of weapon, either a rifle or a handgun. One shaking figure clutched a small hunting dagger.

"Jesus Christ," said Kyle, "get some fucking light in here, I can't see shit past my nose."

"With a nose like that, it's a miracle you can see shit at all," a snide male voice responded.

"Fuck off, open the skylight."

Two figures cryptically moved to opposite ends of the room, pulling thick ropes that Stan saw led up to the centre of the ceiling. The room was abruptly filled with light as the sun beat down through a massive hole in the roof, previously covered by a massive stiff board held up by several pulleys. Stan shut his eyes and the brightness penetrated through.

Kyle sat slowly on an empty sofa, motioning for Stan to join him. "Guys," he addressed the room, "sit down. We've got something to discuss."

In the clear of day Stan could see each person, and fuzzy memories prodded in the back of his mind. There was a tall, dark-haired boy with an angry look fixated on his face, who remained standing as though he still expected a brawl. Another blonde gingerly took a seat on one of the couches furthest from Stan, his leg jittering nervously. The only other girl had flaming red hair and was muscular with blue eyes and thin, serious lips. The fatter boy had a crop of thick, brown hair and a smug, hateable face. The last boy was very beautiful in Stan's opinion, with delicate, elfish features and golden hair that feathered gently to his ears. Each tickled a vague recollection to Stan, and as he gazed at them, he saw slow confusion take over their faces as well.

The brown-haired, chubby boy advanced with a snarl on his face. "What the fuck is this, Jewbag?"

Kyle's answer was composed, if not a little irritated. "This is the newest member of our group, you fat piece of shit. Or did you go deaf in the five minutes I last saw you?"

"The fuck is wrong with him? He retarded or some shit?"

Gaping, Stan blinked and shook his head. He felt as though he were underwater, it was difficult to do anything but stare stupidly around the room. He scrambled for words.

"No, no, I'm… quite able minded," Stan mumbled, but his words were cut off by Kyle.

"Shut up you fat sack of shit," said Kyle as he threw a glowering look at the boy. There was a gleam in his eyes, a sort of fire that made Stan's skin scrawl. Apparently the boy thought so too because he fell into silence, staring sourly at the floor.

"This," Kyle gestured with mock grandiose, "is Stan Marsh."

Immediately a buzzing chattering stirred up in the room like a swarm of flies. The fatter boy was shouting out obscenities, gesturing with thick fingers.

"Stan my fuckhole!" he shouted over the heated voices, stabbing a finger at Kyle. "We don't have enough fucking food for one more person! I don't give a shit if he's the goddam president!"

Across the room the erratic blonde was muttering a string on unintelligible words to the taller brunette, who never took his eyes off of Stan. Stan glared back, his aggression rising. "You got something to say?" he yelled across the room, his hands curling into fists. Immediately the blonde boy shut up, giving him a look like a startled rabbit.

Kyle whipped his head around. "Stan, shut the fuck up! You are _not _doing yourself any favours right now."

Ashamed, Stan flushed red and chewed on the inside of his cheek in frustration. Ike entered the room, tailed sourly by Bebe. They peered around, drawn inside by the hectic voices.

Butters looked especially upset. He thrust himself up from his seat and darted around the room like a frantic yellow butterfly, "Don't fight, guys, please!"

No one paid any attention to the soft-spoken blonde. Bebe grabbed Stan by the shoulder and threw him onto one of the rotting couches. He yelped in surprise. Kyle was shouting now too, countering the brunette's heated tenor. Someone tackled Butters and held his arms behind his back, dragging him away from Stan. There was the sharp click of a rifle.

"GUYS!"

Ike Broflovski stood atop a shabby coffee table, his tiny pale arms spread in exclamation.

"Let's sit down and go through this like adults!" screeched Ike, breathless. "Please!"

Slowly, Bebe lowered her rifle.

Stan cautiously uncurled himself from the couch, his head spinning. The frame smacked his skull hard as concrete. He saw a room full of tensed figures, poised for action. However, their attention was utterly absorbed by the tiny dark-haired boy.

Ike stepped down from the table and plopped onto the empty seat beside Stan. The handsome boy tensed, but Ike shot him a meaningful look and slowly he sat down too. The others followed suit, placing themselves in a sort of sloppy circle. Kyle cleared his throat.

"Alright everyone. I know it's hard to believe, but please, at least _try _to refrain from killing one another."

"You're the one that's killing us!" shot back the smug-looking boy. "You think we can afford to feed this butthole when we can't even feed ourselves? That's bullshit!"

Kyle's gaze turned to fire. "This isn't some shmuck off the side of the road. This is Sta-"

"Stan Marsh, yeah, we heard you," said the handsome blonde, his tone wary. "How can you be so sure?" He eyed Stan with bright blue eyes suspiciously, delicate lips pulled down in a frown. The more Stan looked upon him, the greater an enigma the boy's face became. It tickled no memory, except perhaps the eyes. And even that was a connection with which Stan did not feel confident.

"I'm positive," Ike spoke up, his thin voice rising above the tenor of the others. "He knew stuff about Kyle, there was no way he could've known it if he wasn't who he said he was."

Bebe barked a laugh. "Did he reminisce with you, Ikey?"

"Don't be a bitch, Bebe," said the scary looking boy tonelessly.

"What did he say?" Butters piped up, "about Stan, I mean."

Ike furrowed his brow in concentration. "I told him my name…then he said I had an older brother who played basketball, Guitar Hero, and had crazy red hair."

There was a tight silence. The red-haired girl leaned forward. "Are you sure?" she asked, her voice high and clear. "Are you absolutely positive you didn't accidentally let something slip and then forgot it?"

Ike stared at her, arching an eyebrow. "Red, I don't forget things."

"Well that's fine then," the fat boy shrugged, "If he really is Stan Marsh, he wouldn't mind a little questioning, would he?"

The consistent referral to Stan as though he was not there pissed him off, but Stan held his tongue. He didn't want to turn the room against him, especially in such a delicate situation of heightened emotion. It wasn't until Kyle addressed him directly that he realized everyone was waiting for him to speak.

"Well, Stan. Prove these motherfuckers wrong."

Stan swallowed nervously, fully aware that everyone's eyes were on him. There were stares of accusation, even flat out disbelief. Only Ike and Butters seemed confident, smiling encouragingly. Kyle's face was carefully neutral, attempting to remain impassive in order to appear impartial towards the group.

"Alright then," the smug boy said broadly, folding his hands together in a grand show, like a peacock showing his feathers. Stan was growing to like him less and less by the second. The boy gestured with thick thumbs to himself.

"Who am I?"

Stan stared at him blankly. Ike protested immediately, noting his confusion. "That's not fucking fair! He hasn't seen your face since you were a stupid fourth grader!"

The boy shrugged. "He recognized Kyle easily enough."

"'Cause Kyle's his best friend!"

"Not in the last ten years he hasn't been."

"It's okay," said Stan, sounding more confident than he felt. He looked at the loud, obnoxious lump of a boy before him. There had only been one fat kid in his fourth grade class, and they had been quite close as children. Well, as close as someone could be with such a self-absorbed brat with sociopathic tendencies.

"There was this one kid in class….god, he was a fat fuck," Stan said more so to himself. "I remember…oh god, what was your name?"

The boy smirked. "Whelp, that settles that. Get the fucking liar out of my camp."

Butters slammed a fist into the couch. "No, shut up Cartman! Give him a chance! He ain't got nowhere else to go, and he belongs here!"

_Cartman_. The name clicked in Stan's brain like a puzzle piece.

"Cartman, yeah!"

The boy, Cartman, rolled his eyes. "Oh sure, you just so happened to remember at the exact moment Butters shouts it out."

"Give him a _chance_," hissed the gentle blonde, greatly surprising Stan.

Kyle looked at Stan expectantly, unemotionally. It made Stan uneasy. He felt as though if he didn't earn the approval of the group by himself, Kyle would do nothing to sway their minds. The way his eyes prodded into Stan's, his sharp nose and strong dark brows reminded Stan of a bird of prey.

"Well, Stan?"

And everyone in the room fell into silence, absorbed by Kyle's words. There was a militant authority to them, grand and sharp. Stan grew nervous, but he _had _to be sure. Kyle looked at him. So did everyone else. Stan's guts twisted with the familiar sensation of rushing adrenaline. He exhaled.

_Stay calm, don't dwell, stay in the pre-_

Stan shook the thought abruptly. His code, his mantra for the entirety of his young life, was centred on living only for the moment. The past was clutter, useless newspaper clippings spinning randomly in the wind. Now they expected him to run through the forgotten corridors of his mind and snatch up what scraps of paper he could salvage.

"Cartman… _Eric Cartman_," he proclaimed deliberately. "You had a stuffed frog…named…Calvin or some shit…and, and you were always ripping on Kyle because…"

Stan snapped his fingers in exclamation.

"Because he's _Jewish_!"

The scowl on Cartman's face sorely tempted Stan to smile.

"Fine," huffed Cartman petulantly. "So maybe he is Stan Marsh. Doesn't mean he stays."

Butters looked over incredulously. "Of course it does! Kyle?" he looked pleadingly to the gangly red-haired leader.

Kyle surveyed the group. He seemed to be deeply in thought, staring at the waiting faces without really registering them. Stan was surprised that everyone seemed to be content with waiting until some sort of verdict was passed. Even Cartman, who was struggling to hold his tongue, remained silent.

After what seemed an eternity, Kyle opened his mouth.

"We put it to a vote."

The sense of betrayal hit Stan like a slap in the face. He jumped to his feet. "What?!" Anger plummeted through him with such suddenness it burned through to his bones. "_A vote?_!"

Ike grabbed Stan's hand firmly and tugged backwards. "It's okay," he mumbled, "It's just how things are done here." As Stan bitterly sat back down, Ike slide closer beside him and rubbed his arm comfortingly. "Kyle keeps it democratic so everyone gets a say. It's how we managed as a group for this long."

Immediately Stan regretted his outburst. Bebe shook her head in the corner, rifle clasp closely. Smirking, Cartman relaxed further into his seat, spreading his arms as if to say _my job is done_.

"Alright, hands up if you want Stan to stay," commanded Kyle.

Butters raised his hand immediately; Ike too. Stan was distressed to see Kyle's arm remaining by his side until Ike noted his distress and whispered, "He never votes, he's always the judge."

Stan was astonished to see the beautiful boy's hand rise. His blue eyes flickered meaningfully towards Stan, but all Stan could do was look back remorsefully. _I have no idea who you are._

The red-haired girl also lifted her arm, and she gave Stan a sort smile that faintly panged Stan with a reminder of his mother. Bebe's hands remained secured around her gun, lips pursed in conflict. Feigning a yawn, Cartman stretched both arms widely in the arm only to fold them behind his head, a shit eating grin pasted on his smug face.

The stoic brunette was still, observing Stan with a sulky expression. "You've been on your own, yeah?" he asked in a husky, monotonous voice.

Stan nodded shortly. "Yeah, uh, since Camp Colorado was destroyed, I mean. So for the last six or five years…I stuck with a few groups in the beginning, but they fell apart."

"Why?"

Shifting uncomfortably, Stan felt as though the boy was interrogating him. "Why the fuck do you think? People were eating each other."

"You hunt good?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Been scavenging?"

"Yeah."

"You wanna be in a group?"

"Yes." The questions were beginning to piss Stan off.

The boy shrugged, and turned to the quivering, fair-haired boy balled up beside him. "You want him in?"

Shaking, the boy whispered something to the taller boy. He nodded, and turned to Stan.

"He can stay."

Cartman's face turned red. "What?! What the _FUCK?!_" he demanded, jowls shaking like gelatin. "You guys are all assholes! Just wait, you'll be sorry! He'll eat our food!" He heaved himself up and jabbed a finger at the shaky boy. "He'll eat _YOUR FOOD!"_

Immediately the taller boy advanced towards Cartman, a dark look crossed over his face. Stan remained in his seat, his chest beating as the boy leaned inched from Cartman's nose. His glare was bullets, ice, and a blackened aura of fear seemed to emanate from him. The colour drained from Cartman's face. Stan glanced at Ike nervously, but Ike was fixated on the action as well.

"You don't need any more food, so shut up and _sit down_."

Like a deflated balloon, Cartman reeled for words as the rest of the group murmured in agreement with the statuesque brunette. The red-haired girl sighed and shook her head, shooting Stan an apologetic expression.

"Just ignore him, he's a dick," she said, smiling softly. Her voice was whispery and sweet, like spring rain. It brought Stan a hint of relief.

Just then Kyle walked to the centre of the room, commanding attention with a sweeping gesture. The dusty sunlight filtered over his face, turning him pale and glowing, and impossible to look away from. With his sure expression and sharp features, he looked almost like a soldier's monument there in the light. Plated and preserved in dignity.

"Alright then, that's the vote. Stan stays." He looked around the room as though daring someone to oppose the decision. No one did.

There was a rather tense silence, until Butters piped up. "He can stay in my section, if he wants."

"We'll figure that out tonight," countered Kyle. "Right now we need to focus on our priorities." He gestured to Cartman and the beautiful flaxen-haired boy. "You two have scavenging duty this morning, right? Get to it. We're an hour behind, at least."

The blonde boy grabbed a shovel from the ground and walked out the door without question, slinging an empty satchel over his shoulder as he went. Cartman dawdled, a cutting look on his face when he passed Kyle. "This is bullshit..." he muttered.

Kyle ignored him. He turned to Bebe. "I want you to go scouting. See if anyone followed Stan here, walkers, survivors."

Bebe clicked her tongue. "Right, boss." Tossing her mane of curly blond hair, she strutted out with her rifle swaying back and forth in her hand. Before door closed on her, she whipped around and looked at Stan as though he were a piece of something she found beneath her boot.

"Prove me wrong, kid," she taunted through red lips before giving him a smirk and a wink, letting the door slam shut behind her and leaving Stan speechless.

Kyle rolled his eyes, but seemed to swallow whatever comment he wanted to make when he saw Stan's flushed cheeks. Clearing his throat, he continued, "Leopold, you can get Stan acquainted with the shelter." It took Stan a moment to realize who Kyle was talking to until Butters nodded and smiled broadly at Stan. He pointed two fingers at the two boys still on the far couch, a ragged thing smattered with patterned flowers. "You two are on guard. Leo and Stan can join you after their done." The taller boy sighed and stood up, towering over the messy blonde. Together they left, the smaller following the taller and keeping a fist tightly wound in the latter's shirt.

Then, turning on his heels, Kyle faced Ike. Stan felt Ike stiffen next to him, his head ducking down to stare at the floor. Stan felt nervous for him, even a little uneasy as Kyle's face was unreadable.

"Ike, I want to talk to you about where you were last night," said Kyle sternly. He didn't sound angry, but there was an underlying energy to the words, like the calm before the storm.

Ike was silent. Skinny and vulnerable, a freckled fawn looking into the eyes of a hunter. It stirred in Stan a feeling of pity, less of the previous disgust for the boy helpless as a kitten.

"Hey man, go easy on him, he just-"

"This," interrupted Kyle severely, "is not your concern right now."

Stan didn't know what to say. He remembered Ike's words of being a strict leader, but he thought the result would be a respected, noble figure with wisdom and compassion flowing like honey and milk in the Holy Land. Here, in this partially lit bomb-shelter of a hideout, Kyle was terrifying. Shadows threw across his face with daunting intimidation, easily transforming the Kyle's face into that of a snarling wolf's. If Stan didn't know better, he could say that he almost disliked the boy.

"Here, c'mon, let's go see the sleeping area," said Butters with feigned brightness, taking Stan's hand and gently pulling him towards the door opposite the front entrance. Stan looked back to see Ike with his head still bowed, looking pale. Kyle's arms were crossed and his back turned. Stan couldn't see what expression Kyle had, but he could hazard a guess from the look of Ike's face. A pang of guilt stung him as he left the two behind, Butters closing the door behind them.

* * *

><p>So sorry, I didn't get the chance to upload until now. I made this one extra long to make up for my absence. College has finished and I've got exams and finals to worry about, plus sending off applications for uni. As always, thank you so so much for reading!<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

They were in what Stan figured must have been a storage room, but his surroundings could not have told him more different. Lit candles were fixated to the wall in a symmetrical fashion, but the light they emitted was warm and welcoming. There were several mattresses lining the walls, makeshift bunk beds resting on metal and wooden scraps fashioned into furniture. Each of the beds was different, personalized by small trinkets, blankets, books, and other items resting nearby. There seemed to be a sore shortage of pillows, but so long as the bedding was softer than the ground, it was luxury enough for Stan. Posters and pictures adorned the walls, even drawings on scraps of paper. The room was not quite large, but sizable enough to cram ten or twelve people. Only now did Stan begin to fully understand the apprehension of letting him in the group; there was scarce enough room as it was. The bedding was so close it was like walking in a carpeted room.

Gingerly, Butters stepped in between the mattresses until he plopped down on one covered with a warm, pink quilt. Hesitant, Stan joined him. He felt as though he was trespassing, like Butters had invited into the most private of sanctuaries. Butters didn't seem to notice. He cleared away a notebook and a few stray pencil crayons, wedging them behind him between his bedding and the wall. Awkwardly, Stan sat cross-legged opposite from him. He couldn't shake the image of Ike's pale face, his trembling lip.

"Is Kyle, I mean, is he always so…?"

"Yeah," shrugged Butters, fiddling absently with a corner of the quilt. "I mean, he's tough, but he's the reason most of us are still here. You can't be too hard on him. We owe him our lives."

Stan took in the words, letting them stew in his head. No doubt he knew what it was like to be forcibly shaped by the hand fate dealt you, stuffed into the mould of a cutthroat survivor. He tried to reserve judgement. It must be difficult, knowing that other people, other _lives_, depended upon you for survival. If pleasantness was the ultimate sacrifice, so be it.

"So, this is my bed," exclaimed Butters with a sense of pride that made Stan grin. "It's not much, exactly, but it's nice, and I have this blanket that's pretty warm."

Stan nodded, trying to fall into the sense of ease Butters was clearly trying to provide him. "Yeah, it's good. Better than dirt."

Butters laughed, the sound was like wind chimes. "We'll be sharing for a bit, until Kyle organizes for another mattress. It might be a while, our main priority is food right now."

Stan tried to picture the last time he ate. Yesterday morning, half a can of cold beans. Immediately he perked up. The other half was still in his backpack.

Excitedly Stan slung his backpack off and dug through it, producing half a can of beans wrapped tightly in a plastic bag to prevent leaking precious food. "Check it out, Butters."

Butters' face lit up when he saw the food. "No way, beans!?"

"Yep. They were gonna be breakfast, but I forgot. Had bigger things on my mind."

Butters giggled. "No kidding."

Stan pried the lid open, covering his fingers with his shirt to prevent the sharp metal from cutting him. He brought the can to his lips and tipped the sweet brown syrup down his throat. It was bliss, heaven. He wiped his mouth and passed the can to Butters, who took a modest sip after smiling politely. Stan raised his eyebrows.

"Dude, take a real gulp. It's the least I owe you."

"Well…" said Butters slowly, hunger battling etiquette. Stan knew it wasn't a fair fight, not with hunger ingrained in the nature of every human being, no matter how well mannered. As he expected, Butters conceded, bringing the delicious nectar back to his mouth. After a greedy slurp he lowered the can and grinned sheepishly. "There's not much left…"

"I took like half already dude. Finish it," said Stan to his own surprise. Food ruled over friendship every time. Or so he thought. The look on Butters' face seemed far sweeter than the beans in that moment.

"Y'know, it's funny," said Butters, wiping his lip and lowering the empty can. "No one's called me 'Butters' since before the infection spread. It's kinda nice."

Stan shrugged. "You never really stopped being 'Butters' to me. Leopold, that's a mouthful." He rolled the name around in his mouth.

"Well, it's been my name for the past ten years."

"It makes you sound like an asshole."

Butters laughed. "Yeah, kind of. But it's manlier than 'Butters'."

Stan snorted in amusement, and allowed himself to settle more into his surroundings. Over Butters' bed there was a brightly coloured sketch of purple lilies. It was very good, drawn fluidly and seemed to emanate a feeling of delicate harmony. He gestured to it.

"Did you draw that?"

A redness flushed over Butters' face. "Uh, yeah, I like to draw things…" he mumbled bashfully.

"It's good."

"Oh?" Butters grinned with relief. "Thank you! Bebe kinda makes fun of me for liking to draw, she says it's a useless time-waster."

Stan raised his brows. "She's fucking wrong. It's beautiful."

"Yeah…" sighed Butters. "But I know she's right. I'm not really useful to the group, I know that." He laughed again, but the sound was forced. It made Stan sadder than if Butters had actually cried out. It reminded him of something, something dark. Something that had stirred within himself in the darkest moments, when it was tough to see the light.

Stan swallowed nervously. He wasn't sure if he wanted to poke this sleeping bear, but Butters' dejection gnawed at him. "Were you…uh…when I was, like, holding you hostage…you didn't seem too scared," he ventured cautiously. "And Bebe, she uh, seemed fine with the possibility that I would, uh, kill you…" Stan paused. "And…well, _you_ did too…?"

Now Butters was silent, focused on pulling stray threads from the pink quilt. He avoided looking at Stan, pretending to be lost in thought, or just outright ignoring him. Stan recoiled inwardly at his own brashness. All cheerfulness drained from the room, and it seemed cold and empty.

"Hey, I'm sorry, we don't need to talk about it."

"It's okay," said Butters shortly. "It's the apocalypse, right?" He laughed humourlessly. "You get so acquainted with the idea of death, it becomes so familiar…" Shrugging, Butters finally looked at Stan. His baby blue eyes were misty and sombre. "It's perfectly normal to-to have a few thoughts, a-and-"

Butters began hiccupping, his breath becoming shorter and shallower. "And whether or not you a-act up-p-pon them is a m-matter of cha_*hic*_racter…" The words grew higher and higher, choking on his own breath.

Stan was filled with a sense of dread when he realized what Butters spoke of.

"Man, I-I didn't know. I'm sorry."

There was no reply, only a soft sobbing. Stan fumbled for words. His thoughts tangled in his head, it had been so long since he even _talked _to another person. And here Butters was, sobbing quietly in front of him while Stan sat there like an open-mouthed trout.

Eventually the crying softened and Butters sniffed loudly. "I'm sorry, I just-"

"It's okay," said Stan quickly. "I'm, I'm not used to being around people. Sorry."

"S'not your fault," said Butters, wiping his nose on his sleeve. He smiled weakly, eyes red and bleary. "I guess 'Butters' is a better name for me, huh?"

"It doesn't matter what they call you, you're gonna be you. There's no sense trying to change that, 'cause whatever it is you are, it's good. 'Cause it's unique and shit," rambled Stan, praying he was making a lick of sense.

"Even now?" asked Butters, rubbing red eyes.

"Especially now."

"R-right," said Butters, but he giggled and a small grin toyed on his lips. He took a grounding breath. "Thanks, Stan."

"Uh, you're welcome..?"

"You listen," said Butters warmly, squeezing Stan's shoulder with affection. "It's funny how alone you can feel, even in a group, if nobody listens."

Stan nodded awkwardly. This surge of emotion, he appreciated it, but it was too much. He patted Butters' head stiffly, trying to show gratitude for the trust Butters displayed towards him. "Right…do you wanna show me the rest of the shelter?" he asked, hoping the change of topic wasn't too abrupt.

Butters seemed fine, if not a little snuffed up. The perpetual glowing happiness was ebbing back, and he smiled. "Sure, let's go. Kyle will want us on guard duty as soon as possible anyways. There's not much left anyways, just the showers and latrines."

"Sounds good."

Reeling from the flood of emotions that had saturated the room a moment ago, Stan felt exhausted. It had been a long time since he'd even thought of doing…_that_. The deed. Saying a big old _fuck you _to the world and leaving with both middle fingers flipped up. Thinking about it stirred up painful memories that prodded and poked until it was all Stan could do to let them wash over and take control…

_He was ten years old, and it was dark. The tree seemed tall enough though, keeping him a safe distance from Mom. No, not Mom. The thing in her body, clawing incessantly at the tree trunk. Stan kept his eyes closed, arms wrapped tightly around a thick, sturdy branch, humming "Achey-Breaky Heart" to himself as loudly as he could. The moon was too early; surely the sun couldn't have left him so quickly. In dark shadows lurked everywhere. The ugly moaning floated into Stan's ears and nestled in his brain, and when he tried to close his eyes, he felt as though he was cradled against his mother's chest, but her embrace was cold and stiff, and he could not hear her heart beating… _

_The car had broken down_

_Dad shouting_

_There was moaning, horrible moaning from all around them_

_Get to the forest, go, NOW_

_A shout_

_A gunshot_

_Shelley was crying, clutching her arm like Dad clutched his rifle, and his face when he saw the blood_

_Dad turning to stone_

_He must have_

_He didn't move_

_Not even when they tore into the soft flesh of his torso_

_dark red on the soil_

_Mom grabbing tiny hands and _

_run run run as fast as you can_

_into the forest_

_and up the tree Stan_

_don't look down _

_and close your eyes_

_Mommy's coming baby_

_Mommy's co-_

_…_

_…_

Butters was humming. Stan forced the thoughts down. He felt cold, feverish, hollow. He was grateful that Butters seemed tired of talking too, humming a pleasant tune instead. Stan allowed it to distract him, the simple melody flitting over him and kissing his ears like dandelions.

They fell into step together, walking in an amiable silence that was strange to Stan, but helped him to forget. In that moment, it was enough.

* * *

><p>You guys have been so understanding about my delayed updates, thank you so much. You guys all rock.<p>

I took a bit of a risk with this and added some lyrical aspects, which I really like for flashback/memory. I like to think that Stan's memory is fragmented and immature, considering all the psychological trauma he's been through. And Butters, of course through it all he's still got that big, bleeding heart. Seriously, these choices are so fun to make!

Thank you for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

The showers weren't very impressive. Stan arched his brows doubtfully as Butters showed him the couple of big, metal tubs surrounded by buckets. The floor was tiles and the room was small, leading Stan to believe that this had once been an actual washroom. There was a crooked sink still fixated to the powder white walls, hanging precariously. Mildew grew on the floor and seeped down the walls, mossy green sheening over dulled ceramic. Stan was pleased to discover a surprising lack of odour. Instead there was a sweet freshness to the air, which he immediately pinpointed to the dainty, purple lilac flowers that sprouted through the open cracks in the fall. They were quite beautiful, splaying over the broken white wall like delicate, curling grape vines.

"This is small."

"Yeah," conceded Butters, "But it keeps us sanitary. It was Ike's idea to rub flower pollen in the cracks on the wall, so it's a heck of a lot more pleasant in here." He picked up a wooden bucket, and stepped into the nearest metal tub. "These used to be feeding troughs from the farm nearby, but Kyle salvaged them. We get in, and take a bucket full of water, and" he mimed dumping the bucket over his head. "That's all there is to it. We wash the tubs every three days."

The latrines were outside. Stan was confused when Butters gestured to a seemingly empty field until he was handed a shovel. "Pick a spot, any spot." Stan politely refused, deciding that he would keep to his privacies as long as he could.

When they ventured full circle back to the front of the convenience store, Butters cautiously pressed an ear to the door and motioned for Stan to hush. Listening carefully, Stan couldn't hear any speaking from inside. Apparently Butters thought the same, he straightened up and breathed in relief. Stan relaxed. He wasn't keen on interrupted a heated argument, especially not between the two brothers.

Ike was curled up quietly on a wrecked leather couch, absorbed in a heavy book that was comically massive in his thin hands. When he heard footsteps he looked up and burst into a relieved smile.

"Stan! How'd you like the rest of the place?"

"It was…nice," said Stan carefully. "Very nice. The flowers in the, uh, shower area…that was a nice touch."

Ike flushed with pride. "Thanks. I read about wild flowers in a book from the old library, and cross-pollinated this real sweet-smelling breed with a super versatile breed, so it would survive and be able to grow off the nutrients from the soil in the walls. I figured that it'd be better than smelling, y'know..."

"It is," agreed Stan, incredibly impressed with the boy's intellect. Ike was spewing words he couldn't place the meaning of if he tried, but there was a flimsy falsehood to their fervour. He studied the boy carefully. Though he appeared enthusiastic, there was a sense of dejection hidden behind Ike's eyes. His words were too bright, his smile too stretched.

"So, uh…how hard did he go on you?"

Ike shrugged in a show of nonchalant. "Shouted a bit... said he'd lock me in the bomb shelter if I kept sneaking out…"

Stan was shocked. "_Lock you up?_" he asked, flabbergasted.

Ike nodded angrily. "Yeah. He thinks I'm still a kid."

He looked so cross it made Stan want to giggle. So pale and small was he, such a kitten of a person that it was hard not to sympathize at least a little bit with Kyle.

But locking him up? That was far too extreme for Stan to condone.

"Ike, that's fucked up! No one says anything?!" he demanded, upset.

"Kyle, uh, says it's none of our business," interjected Butters meekly.

"That's fucking abuse, man," said Stan, glaring at Butters. He shook his head in disgust. "But hey, I guess if you're fine with a twelve year old kid getting locked up that's your business."

"No!" objected Butters, hurt, "No, it's just…"

"It's hard to stand up to him," finished Ike. "He's been such a genius at surviving that it's scary, questioning him. You never know if it'll cost you your life… But in this case, he's wrong," Ike's tone changed, growing peeved, "I can handle myself better than Cartman and _he _gets to scout. Maybe, if I could actually get some experience, I'd be as good as Red."

Stan thought for a moment. "The red-head?"

"Yeah."

Butters interposed, "You know he does it because he cares for you. He's just worried. You guys are family, real family…and that's something not a lot of us have."

Ike was exasperated. "But I was _adopted!"_

Butter's head snapped up. "That don't mean nothing and you know it! You're his little brother, and he'd be damned if he didn't do his darndest to keep you safe!"

"Dude, either swear or don't."

"That's not the point Ike!"

It would do best to tread lightly around such a situation, Stan knew. But the absolutely gross mistreatment of a problem that was only the result of Kyle's fierce love for his brother set Stan's head afire. It made him think of Shelley, and all the awful things siblings do to each other. He was happy at least that to have left her on good terms. Seconds before the car engine had putted out she was teaching Stan to fart with his armpit, annoying their parents to all hell. It was one of the few thoughts that didn't pang him.

He raised his voice. "Butters, the kid is being _locked up_. That doesn't set off any warning signals to you?

"I'm not a kid!"

Butters answered as though he didn't hear Ike's protest. "Kyle does what he think is best, and if you have a problem with that, then, well..." he trailed off, wordless in emotion.

"Then what? I can _leave_?" It was like a bullet shot right through Stan.

Butters' eyes widened. "No! No, please, I don't want to fight with you," he said softly, taking a deep breath as though he was on the verge of tears again.

Stan felt a sickly pricking in his throat. "I don't want to fight either."

"Good," said Ike, "then don't. "

"But you, you're just fine with getting caged?"

Ike shifted uncomfortably. "No…but it's not like there's anything I can do about it, eh? 'Sides complaining. He lets me have books, and I've got a bell to ring in case there's danger or I have to take a piss-"

"Like a _dog_?"

"No! Jesus!" Ike shook his head pleadingly. "It sounds bad, I know. But it really isn't, not at the end of things."

Stan frowned. "I'm gonna talk to him."

Immediately Butters gawked at him. "I don't wanna sound mean, but that's an awful idea, Stan."

"We were best friends. He'll at least listen to what I have to say. It's not like he'd kick me out of the group," said Stan confidently. "At least not without another vote, right?"

Ike nodded, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Yeah…that might work…" he said thoughtfully.

Butters was stammering, almost panicky. "Okay, well, that's good then, that you're willing to do that, Stan. B-but please, don't put me in the middle of this. I-I'm sorry, Ike, it's just…" he sighed, dejected. "I can't handle the conflict, I really can't."

Stan was gripped with the desire to seize Butters and shake him. Instead, he closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead as though it would alleviate the headache brought on by the whole situation.

"Fine, Butters. Just, just fine."

Butters looked pained, but Stan ignored him. "Where is he, Ike?"

"Uh…I think he's checking in on the scavenging."

"Where?"

Ike paled. "Maybe give him a minute. He doesn't like to be interrupted."

Stan threw his hands out in frustration, "Then what do you want me to do?!"

"Just wait a little bit, it's okay," wheedled Ike. "He's more likely to listen to you if he's not busy."

"Alright, fine. Tonight."

* * *

><p>Yes, a bit short. But hey, sometimes the characters just have to get things hashed out.<p>

I swear, half the reviews I receive are more eloquently written than the story! As always, thank you so much for reading, I truely appreciate it. Until next time~


	11. Chapter 11

Shortly after the agreement was made, Stan was restless. The thought of confronting Kyle exhilarated and choked him all at once. He yearned to speak with him, the boy that had been like a brother to him so long ago. Figure out why, why he was doing all these horrible, alien things. _And why? _ It set his nerves on edge. Butters said it would likely be hours before Kyle returned, and thus proposed an alternative to passing the time.

"Have you checked out the roof yet? Maybe that'd be a good idea, since zombies can't, y'know, climb ladders…"

Stan agreed, not really caring what the activity was so long as it made the time pass. Ike opted out, reburying his nose in the heavy tome he'd previously been absorbed in. Stan had the idea that Ike wanted to be alone in his thoughts, mulling over the words of an outsider. He hoped his words at least gave Ike something to think about.

Butters took Stan to the rickety ladder that lead on to the roof. It leaned against the wall and led outside to a rough, hand-made opening in the ceiling. Stan eyed it uneasily, but Butters seemed confident in its ability to hold them both. The climb was short yet precarious, and punctured by jarring shakes that made Stan tense like a cat. When he reached the top he gripped the roof's edge firmly and pulled himself up, muscles shaking in exertion.

Blinding sunlight flooded his face in a beating warmth as he sat upon the heated shingles. Following shortly, Butters smiled passively at Stan. Stan ignored the gesture. Rather, he scrambled to his feet and tread carefully over the hot rooftop, glistening like black diamond in the sun. He heard Butters shuffling behind him slowly, but found he couldn't bring himself to turn around and offer the blonde a kind gesture. The silence choked Stan's throat, but his stubbornness would not let him break it.

On the opposite side of the slanted roof were the two boys Kyle had put on guard duty. The smaller one was sitting closer to the top, arms wrapped around his knees in a show of nervousness. The other boy was slouched beside him, long limbs folded in like a vulture. He gazed over the broken town of South Park, his face a blank slate. When Stan approached, he didn't do so much as glance over.

Butters caught up to Stan, panting slightly. He brushed the dirt off of his shirt rather primly. "So, ah, this is guard duty. It's not much, but on warm days it can be real nice, like sunbathing almost."

Stan's mouth twitched. "I'm sure."

"So…" said Butters, "Have y'all been introduced yet?"

The brunette finally looked over, his expression dark. "Tucker."

"What?"

"That's Craig," exclaimed Butters helpfully, "But he likes his last name better, so you can call him Tucker."

Tucker, or Craig, stared sourly for a moment before turning back to his soulless gaze over the horizon.

Stan shrugged off the jilt. It wasn't like his social skills were any better.

"Who's the other kid?"

"_Ng!"_

A nervous sound erupted from the feathery blonde, and he glanced at Stan with wild brown eyes. "I'm Tweak."

Mildly surprised that the boy had responded, Stan nodded congenially. "Tweak. Alright. I'm Stan."

"I know," the boy exclaimed. "Are you gonna loot us? I don't wanna die today!"

"Wha-what? No!" blurted Stan, thrown by the sheer oddity of the question.

"_Ack!_ So you've been bitten?!"

"No! No, I'm just a guy."

"Oh! Okay, good." Twitching incessantly, Tweak's posture relaxed and he rested his head against the crook of Craig's slender neck.

Stan gawked silently at the blonde's extreme show, but Butters was hardly surprised by the behaviour. "He's a bit…paranoid. And unpredictable." he whispered quietly.

_No kidding_, thought Stan. Unsure of what to do, he sat down beside Craig. The stoic boy hardly reacted, giving him neither a sign of welcome nor hostility. Settling beside him, Butters' whistling filled the otherwise stiff silence.

"So we just watch the town for survivors, undead, anything that ought to be reported to Kyle," explained Butters as the four of them surveyed the wreckage of civilization below them, bathed red in the bloody summer sun. "Someone will get us when it's time to switch off, in about two hours or so." Stan still felt resentment slivered towards Butters, and remained silent. He turned his eyes to the town, gazing beyond the wreckage all the way to the purpled mountains that smeared the background.

So they sat there on the warm rooftop with the gentle breeze rustling through their hair, and Stan breathed in the cool, crisp scent of the coming autumn. The soft humming was delicate, like a butterfly flittering through the air. A state of exhilaration overtook Stan as he couldn't help but listen to the music he did not sing, seeing the movement he did not make out of the corner of his eyes. Breathing, human bodies were all around him, warm and soft and real. Craig's dark lashes fluttered when he blinked, ridiculously long and full. He counted the freckles paly smattered over Tweak's nose, and was stunned by the rosy flush that filled his cheeks when he caught Stan staring at him. Even the crisp, light tenor of Butter's humming was a revelation. All these things he hadn't known for the past ten years, eyelashes, freckles, beautiful voices. They filled him up and poured through his body with a slow warmth. He sniffed, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his leather jacket discretely.

The sun sank red over the horizon, setting the darkening sky aflame with orange and red, and Stan's muscles grew stiff. He rubbed them, digging his fingers into the muscle and squeezing the stress out. Around a particularly tender spot he winced, letting out an audible hiss. It startled Tweak, who whipped his head in the direction of the noise and screeched.

"_What was that_?!"

Stan jumped at the sound. "Jeez, nothing!" He was about to say more, but a withering glare from Craig had him snapping his mouth shut.

Instead he listened the song that poured from Butter's closed lips. It was jovial and light, like a sea shanty sung by young sailors. For as long as they had been sitting there, Butter's had been humming. It was like he was unaware of it, an ingrained reflex natural as breathing. It softened something in Stan, and he decided it was probably stupid to hold a grudge against one of the few people actually trying to make him feel like he had a place here in South Park.

Stan nudged Butters. "Doesn't your throat get sore?"

Butters looked ruffled to be interrupted, but he answered Stan's questions congenially. "Sometimes, but I'd rather my throat hurt than stop. It's one of my, uh, coping mechanisms I guess." He laughed lightly.

"That's understandable." Stan thought wistfully of his baseball bat, pure glistening silver as it smashed into undead faces. It was undoubtedly somewhere downstairs in another great pile of weapons. The thought panged him, but he decided not to bring it up, not so long as he was perceived as a threat by the people around him. Tweak seemed reluctant to trust, and Craig was naturally alienating.

He glanced sideways at the two, prodding at what little memory he had left of fourth grade. The only thing that came to his mind when he thought the name 'Craig Tucker' was _dick_. Dick and a pan flute. Fuck if he knew why.

Tweak was easier. He was that spastic kid that never stopped moving, pissing off every other fourth grader with his waggling leg and uncontrollable outbursts. Back then he was a short, volatile boy with flyaway yellow hair and shabby clothes, like his parents didn't help him dress himself. Now, ten years later, he hardly seemed better off. A rumpled sweater the colour of wine hung off his wiry frame, loose threads poking through the cuffs. Scrappy brown logger's boots. Once upon a time Stan might have commented on the rather feminine black leggings clinging to his twiggy legs, but the weight of his recently acclaimed leather jacket reminded him of the scarcity of clothes in this world, and he held his tongue.

He watched them for a while, noting their body language. After being on his own, everything and everyone foreign was intensely interesting. Casually Craig draped an arm around the smaller blonde, eliciting mild surprise from Stan. He noted the way Tweak leaned into the touch, jittering a little less with the lengthy limb weighing down on him. It reminded him of two older, very familiar faces that he'd tried to scourge his memory of time and time again. But the distinct tenderness, the spark in the air was undoubtedly recognizable.

"Are you guys a couple?" The question jumped out unsolicited. Butters looked over, mouth dropped and utterly scandalized.

"Stan, you don't just ask people that!" said Butters in an utterly scandalized voice.

Stan furrowed his brow. "Don't you?"

"Well…I don't know!" exclaimed Butters, flustered. "It's been a while since we've had someone disrupt the etiquette of our group. It's weird how you don't, just, know things."

Stan shrugged. He was still curious.

Craig turned his dark eyes to Stan. "Yeah."

Stan waited, mildly uncomfortable when he realized Craig made no plans to elaborate. "How long have you guys been together?"

Now Craig looked over sharply, his straight, definite nose pointing at Stan like an accusing finger, eyes like coal. "Why do you want to know?"

The aggression of the question put Stan off, and he shrugged. "Curious, I guess? You don't need to answer."

"I won't."

"Good, fine," said Stan, pissed. "God, you must be fun at parties."

"Why did you want to keep him again?" asked Craig, looking at Tweak boredly.

"Because –_ng_- he's one of us. And god Craig, don't be a dick," scolded the unkept blonde.

Craig sighed, but shrugged off the retort. His expression turned sour when Tweak deftly removed the lanky arm from around his shoulders and walked to other side of the bitter brunette, sitting next to Stan.

Tweak offered Stan a lopsided grin. "Sorry about him, he's an asshole. And, uh…" he glanced downwards, picking furiously at his fingernails, "…sorry I thought you were, like, a murderer. You just never know these days!" He looked up at Stan suddenly, wild-eyed. With his pale blonde, near invisible brows elevated to the extreme, Tweak looked ready to burst from anxiety. "Everyone's out to kill one another! Even people you think you trust, and-and _know_. It's so _frustrating_. I really can't take it. Can't. Lies and guns, it's like that's all some people need!" His movements became more frantic as he wound himself up. Butters looked a bit sick, eyeing Tweak with something like fear, but fuck it if Stan knew why.

Butters tugged Stan's arm meekly. "Hey, uh, maybe I think there's something downstairs that I want you to-"

"Show me later," interrupted Stan. God, Butters could be annoying when he didn't shut up.

"And the _killing_, I mean, Jesus!" Tweak continued as though neither boy said anything. "Everyone's _killing_ everybody, and, and _stealing_ everything. It's like the whole world's out to get you!

Stan sighed heavily. "I hear you."

"And you have your friends, and if someone isn't your friend, they're your enemy. It's so fucked, everything's so fucked. Enemies right under your nose, and the others don't even know. Can't say anything, 'cause then they'll know you know, and that's when they _get_ you. It's so _frustrating_."

"Uh, is that why you didn't say anything back when everyone was voting?" asked Stan, trying to connect the disarraying dots of Tweak's vague speech patterns. It seemed an innocent enough question.

The blonde froze. He looked utterly perplexed. Beside him Craig tensed, black eyes gleaming.

"W-what do you mean?!"

"I dunno," said Stan, "You didn't seem real keen on talking back in the room. Y'know, when you guys were all deciding my fate. What the fuck happened? Cat got your tongue?" He laughed casually, but the noise dropped like a stone in water when he saw Craig. Glaring fiercely, the boy had such rage on his face that it caught Stan's voice in his throat. It was like staring down a great black bull, cleaving the ground with razor hoofs in a precedent to the charge.

Even the music faltered, and Stan realized Butters had been listening the whole time. He'd forgotten that the sensitive blonde had even been there for a moment, the melodies fading into the background like wind.

"That's kinda…I mean, Stan…" mumbled Butters timidly. "I think uh, maybe we should go…"

_SMACK_

"No!" exclaimed Tweak with such furious passion he smacked a spidery hand against the shingles. "You let me speak! I'm not a baby, I can talk to Stan!"

Butters paled. He stumbled for words, desperately backpedalling. "I never said you were, Tweak, I just-"

"NO!" screamed the boy abruptly, scrambling to his feet in a sudden emotional explosion. "YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH!"

He made to charge at Butters, fists balled in rage when Craig's arm snapped out and grabbed the blonde's shaking wrist. Tweak jolted back, thrown off the momentum of his advance, and clumsily fell over Craig's legs.

"LET GO YOU FUCKER!"

Craig merely looked at Stan, keeping the flailing boy locked in his arms. He clamped a large hand over Tweak's mouth, muffling the spitting shrieks of profanity.

Stan was at a loss for words. From zero to a hundred, just like that. His heart felt sick, he was so freaked out.

Craig stood up, dragging the struggling blonde with him. Without a word he made for the ladder, shifting his hold on Tweak to one arm while he grasped the top rung with the other. As he awkwardly descended, wincing off stray kicks and punches, he stared wordlessly at Stan. Like it was his fault.

Stan turned to Butters. "What the _fuck_ is wrong with him?!" he demanded.

Butters looked uncomfortable. "Craig or Tweak?"

"Fuck, both of them! That scream was a good as a zombie magnet, why the fuck did he go off like that?!"

"Well…" slowly started Butters, "to be fair, he hasn't been quite that bad for a while…"

"That _bad_?!"

"Okay, look!" said Butters with uncharacteristic finality. "I'll be the first to admit, Tweak's definitely got some baggage. Who doesn't?! He just gets stressed out, and that gets him angry, which stresses him out more 'cause he'll try to bottle it up, and it's just one vicious cycle till he explodes. That's his deal." Finished, Butter was breathing hard. His expression was one of defeat. "Is that good enough for you?"

A twinge of guilt fluttered in Stan's ribcage, but he refused to let Butter's make him feel as though _he _was in the wrong.

"Yeah, it is. At least we know _why _he's an uncontrollable human bomb. That's much better."

"The sarcasm isn't helpful, Stan. And you did provoke him."

"I asked him a question!"

"A private one," retorted Butters, softness returning to his voice. "He… he has trust issues. He thinks that…certain people in the group are a danger to him. For no reason. It's something the group's dealt with already. I don't feel it's my right to tell you. How would you feel if Craig asked you about your family, why you were alone?"

Stan's lip curled. "You stop right there."

"I will," conceded the blonde quickly. His gaze was tangible on Stan's skin, blue eyes deep with sympathy. It made Stan want to punch something. "I just want you to understand."

"It was you defending him that set him off in the first place." Stan flung the words.

"That doesn't matter, please Stan, just listen-"

A muffled _bang _peppered the air, silencing Butters. Stan straightened up. The sound tickled something funny. He tilted his head like a dog on a scent, intuition tingling in his gut. _Something was wrong._ Cold sweat slicked the pits of his shirt when he saw the figures in the distance, no bigger than toy soldiers from the distance they were at.

A girl running at breakneck speed, a short, thick mass of blonde hair wailing behind her like a gale. Legs stretching expertly over the broken terrain, landing surely over rocks and weeds. Every few steps she whipped around and raised the rifle in her hands, letting off a few _bangs_ at the rotting cluster of the undead hot on her tail.

They stumbled and shuffled like drunkards, stiff limbs sprawled out riotously in front of them. There were seven or eight of them, each a variation of oozing, bloated grotesqueness. A few trundled on their dead, rotting feet. But others were fresher. One flailed, sprinting with an uneven gait towards the living girl. From Stan's vantage point, it looked as though the distance between the two was closing.

"Oh _shit"_

Stan barely heard Butters. His heart was pounding. He couldn't breathe. Without thought he dashed to the edge of the roof and jumped.

* * *

><p>I know, I know, finally some gruesome zombie action! Until now it's been ten juicy chapters of character development. I blame the terrain, all the zombies from South Park stopped being even remotely terrifying about four years ago.<p>

For those of you who celebrate the holiday, Merry Christmas, and to all of my readers, thank you.


	12. Chapter 12

Years of surviving in trees had taught Stan how to fall. He let his knees collapse beneath him, rolling into the soft dirt and absorbing the impact of the fall in his shoulder blade. It jarred through him, but in a hasty breath he was up on his feet. As long as his legs were good to run, he had a chance. His shoulder throbbed, but the pain was scarcely anything to the adrenaline burning in his blood.

He looked around, eyes catching the rusted edges of a wooden garden rake resting against the convenience store. Snatching it, he bolted towards the chaos.

Bebe was like lightning, fear electric in her face. She caught sight of Stan and they locked eyes. Stan breathed, willing himself to go faster. The ground beat against his feet, fast as his heart. The distance was closing. He could see Bebe's eyes, lashes, pupils shrunk with fear…

And then she blew past him, struggling with her own momentum. Stan kept going, the undead sprinter closing in, roaring with shredded vocal chords. The sound grated against Stan's ears like rusty tin. He kept going until he could smell the rotting flesh peeling from the zombie's skull. Swinging the rake out from behind him, Stan leaned his weight onto his front foot and gripped with both hands.

Like a pro, he swung. He caught the runner right in the head, snapping the weak metal of the rake off in its ghastly cranium. It stumbled violently to the side, clawing angrily as it fell to the ground. Without hesitation Stan pounced upon it, driving the broken end of the wooden handle through the soft opening of the zombie's eye socket. It gurgled black liquid, then sagged inanimately.

A shadow crossed over Stan and he scrambled backwards just as another undead thrust itself towards him, screaming inhumanely. It clasped a clammy hand around his ankle, then-

**_BANG_**

The gunshot exploded in Stan's eardrums. The zombie's head exploded like inky fireworks, splattering against Stan's face. Breathing hard, Stan looked up.

Bebe's rifle was held surely, her face contorted in focus. Her face was sheened with sweat, stray hairs sticking to her forehead. She glanced at Stan, then refocused, eyes narrowing.

**_BANG _**

**_BANG_**

Then her finger clicked against the trigger, the shallow ticks signing an empty barrel. With a scream of frustration she smacked the butt of the rifle against one of the still charging zombies. Stan thanked whatever gods that might be listening that all the quick ones were put down, and the shufflers were still a good few steps away.

Stan fumbled his fingers around the stiffening grasp of the zombie. Rigamortis was setting in, fastening the hold like plaster around Stan's leg. Furiously he dug his nails into the hand, peeling through bloody tissue. Even when he scraped bone, the dead hand clenched stubbornly. He could hear Bebe fighting ahead of him, the thudding of metal slamming into bodies punctuated by high-pitched grunts of effort.

Then with a sudden gust, a dark figure blew past him. Clad in a navy jean jacket and black pants, Craig looked like a greaser straight out of the seventies as he thrust his shovel into a groaner's neck. Pushing down, he popped the head clean off, then pivoted and hit the last zombie with the flat end of the shovel head. It fell to the ground, mouth agape with jagged teeth, still clawing the air. Until the sole of Craig's steel-toe boot crushed through the zombie's skull.

Bebe was bent over, breathing hard. "They came….from the south…there was a…a camp." Straightening up, she wiped her forehead with the bottom of her shirt. Her face was flushed and red as her lips. "A fuck load of supplies, tents, cans…but moaners all over. Couldn't pull the trigger, otherwise they'd have been on top of me in a second. We gotta tell Kyle."

Craig nodded blankly. He glanced at Stan, eyes trailing to where the undead hand clamped him. With the barest hint of a self-satisfied smirk toying on his lips, so small Stan wondered if it was merely a projection of his own emotions, Craig regripped his shovel and simply walked back to the store.

Bebe laughed. "Christ, what the fuck did you do to Tweak?" She knelt down and pulled out a pocket knife, wedging the blade between Stan's calf and the undead fingers. With a _crunch _she bend the fingers back, sticking out unnaturally from the rotting palm. Immediately Stan withdrew his leg with a shudder. He rubbed over his leg a few good times, trying to shake the clammy, hair-raising feel of a moaner wrapping its hungry hand around his living, blood flushed leg.

"Fuck if I know, the kid's a time bomb," muttered Stan sorely. "Besides, Butter's provoked him."

Bebe smirked. "Leo. Really kid, that's the best you've got? God, you're stupid."

"Fuck you," retorted Stan. "You weren't there, you don't know shit. Butters went off about how fragile Tweak _apparently_ is, and that got Tweak pissed. Then he started freaking."

"Yeah, okay." Bebe snorted and turned around. "And you didn't open your big mouth at all. Shit, I've known you all of two hours and I can tell you've got a permanent home for that foot in your mouth."

Before Stan could fling back a retort, she slapped him harshly on the back. "But hey, you're a fucking decent zombie slayer. I'll give you that." And she walked away.

Wincing, Stan rolled his shoulder around in its socket. It still ached from the impact of the ground, and Bebe's show of "affection" did not do anything to alleviate the pain. The zombie corpses lay scattered like litter over the ground, blackening and smelling of putrid rot. Nothing salvageable, they all wore raggedy summer clothes stained with one bodily fluid or another.

He walked back to the house, and nearly everyone was outside waiting for him.

* * *

><p>It's the holidays for me, so here's an extra wee chapter. I've got more written up,but I found the flow was weird when I added more of the story and cut it of it different parts. I hope you don't mind. I aim to add much more of the good zombie bashing bits later on in the story, so if you're getting bloodthirsty for the eating people part of the zombie apocalypse, have no fear!<p>

Your reviews and reading mean so much to me, thank you so much, and have a wonderful New Years Eve eve tomorrow (if you're in North America)!


	13. Chapter 13

Kyle was fuming, Stan could tell. His red curls bobbed as he paced back and forth in front of the house, visible as Stan grew closer. Craig was standing straight up, motionless as a statue. Leaning casually against the house was Bebe, combing fingers through her short frizz of blonde hair. It looked as though the other scavengers were back too. The red-haired girl chewed a fingernail nervously. Cartman was engaged in aggressive conversation with the handsome boy whom Stan still could not place. Squinting, Stan could see that Tweak was not counted amongst the group outside. Ike neither.

Seeing Stan approaching, Kyle stood still. It was eerie, the way his bright green eyes fixated on Stan as he approached. They crackled with a hidden fire, like a dragon gazing upon a glowing emerald. They struck fear in Stan, until he shook himself. _He's a person, just like you. Just a person._

"So," began Kyle, calm and slow. Cartman and the boy fell silent. "Zombies. Anyone wanna tell me why I come back to a herd of zombies surrounding the shelter?"

There was a tense silence. Stan didn't dare raise his voice.

Bebe reluctantly stepped forward. "I was scouting, like you told me to do. Went down the river, followed it into the forest, and found a campsite. There was a shitload of supplies…but a fuckton of groaners to match. Some were old, but two were pretty ripe. I mean ripe." She paused to wrinkle her perky nose. "So I was gonna back out and report back right away, see if we could get a party to raid the place…and then I heard Tweak losing his shit a hundred goddamn miles away. Well, the fucking groaners did too, when they caught wind of human shrieking. So I ran, which was stupid, cause that just made them chase me. Managed to shake off most of them, believe me, the seven out there aren't half of what was roaming around that camp."

Eyes bulging at Bebe, Cartman looked livid. "Are we safe?! How close are they?"

"About a mile, mile and a half?"

"Fuck! Fucking fuck!" Furiously, Cartmen crossed to Stan until spit was flying in the latter's face. "If you fucking screwed us over, you're _dead_! You hear me?!"

Stan's head was on fire. "Excuse me, _dipshit_, but in case you didn't notice, I wasn't the one screaming my goddamn lungs out on the fucking rooftop!" He spun around, searching frantically for sympathetic faces. "I mean, is that normal? Has he always been so…so…"

"Yeah," said Craig heatedly. It was the most passion Stan had seen out of him. "He ran out of antipsychotics about three years back. So we deal."

"_Why?!_" asked Stan, exasperated. "Whatever his deal is, it's putting you all at risk! You can't be throwing goddamn tantrums with zombies around, that's how you die!"

"What exactly are you suggesting?" challenged Craig through clenched teeth.

Laughing gleefully, Cartman sneered at Stan. "He wants us put him down! See? You see?! This is what happens. You let someone into the group, and turns out they're a fucking _murderer_."

"Shut up, Cartman." Kyle held up a hand. He looked at Stan straight, expressionless. "It was Leopold that took you up to the roof, right?"

The name threw Stan for a moment, but he nodded. The hairs on the back of his neck pricked. There was a definite shift in the energy of the group when Kyle spoke.

"Well, Leo? Did you talk to him about Tweak? Was he aware of Tweak's extreme paranoia and delusional cognitions?"

Head bowed, Butters scratched the back of his ear. His voice was higher than a child's when he answered. "…no…I mean, I told him Tweak could be over-reactive and-"

"Clearly," interrupted Kyle, "you didn't do a sufficient job." He had no need to raise his voice; the threatening calmness pressing in his tone carried the words over Butters'. "And you see the consequences?"

"I-I mean, Tweak was getting pretty wound up and-"

"Answer the question, Leopold. Do you understand the consequences?"

Butters was stifling back tears. "Y-yes. Y-you all…I could have k-k-ki-" He could not say the word, and was reduced to a quivering mess of empty gasps.

"I'm not angry at you," said Kyle matter-of-factly, "Not because it was a mistake. But because me being angry will never hurt you as much as the real-life consequences of screwing up will. Understand?"

Lip quivering, Butters nodded. He folded his hands in front of him and closed his eyes, scrunching the wetness away.

"And Stan," continued Kyle, "You want to know why we keep Tweak around, right?"

Nodding shamefacedly, Stan felt like an asshole. "I didn't mean to sound like a dick. It's just, how has he survived all this time? With outbursts like that? How much do you guys go through to keep zombies away when he loses his shit?"

Kyle was wordless, pursing his lips as though a secret toyed on the tip of his tongue. He turned to the group. "Who wants to tell him?"

Cartman stepped forward, giving Stan a look like _well aren't you about to look like an idiot_. He folded his thick arms in front of him, straightening up to his full height to sneer down his nose at Stan.

"Well," he said slowly, savouring the power trip. "As anyone with half a functioning brain could figure, Tweak is a little different than the rest of us. Chemical imbalances, hormonal mutations, I won't bore you with all the details. You've seen him, his spastic outbursts that undoubtedly should have shortened his lifespan considerably, considering the nature of our undead friends. That is-"

"Get the fuck on with it," interjected Bebe, rolling her eyes.

"Point being," said Cartman loudly, ignoring the comment. "It's not just the living that take Tweak's obvious mental deformities into account-"

"You shut the fuck up," hissed Craig menacingly. "You stupid. Ugly. Bastard."

Looking a tad paler, Cartman cleared his throat and continued. "The dead notice it too. Or rather, they don't."

Stan blinked, stumped. "What? What's your fucking point?"

"_They can't smell him."_

The words submerged Stan into a whole new world. He blinked through the murky waters. "Wh-what do you mean they can't smell him?"

Cartman shrugged. "Exactly that. Jesus, you really are some kind of idiot."

"What he means," said Red, fiddling her long, auburn hair into a braid, "is that zombies have two ways of tracking humans. Sound and scent. It's the last one that's dangerous, 'cause you can be quiet as a church mouse and they'll still find you. We're still not sure if it's the blood, sweat, pheromones, or just plain human _fear_ that they detect, but Tweak doesn't have it." She looked at him seriously. "They just…shuffle around him."

_No fucking way_. Stan stumbled over his own thoughts, forming soundless words with his lips. "But that, I mean…" he blinked, flustered. "_Holy shit._"

"Holy shit indeed."

"Shut up, Cartman," chastised Red, the natural sweetness of her voice ruining the meanness of the words.

"How did you find this out?" demanded Stan.

Kyle waved a hand dismissively. "Anyone who isn't on kitchen duty can fill him in. Leopold, Cartman, Craig, get going. We're falling behind schedule."

Craig slunk off without a word. Grin sliding off his face, Cartman looked less amused as Kyle resumed control. He shot Stan one last shit-eating grin before following the lanky greaser into the shelter, carefully angling his face away from Kyle's stern gaze. Butters sniffled, rubbing suspiciously red eyes on the cuff of his shirt.

Stan crossed his arms and waited. Kyle look him in the eyes, nodded, and left with the others. It was annoying, but Stan also felt a small swell of pride at the gesture. Kyle could have just walked away, he supposed, even ordered Stan to drop the subject. But though his gaze was often stern and authoritative, there was a tangible respect to the way Kyle addressed Stan. Like they were equals, like Stan wasn't some outsider that had been absent for the last decade. Stan appreciated it.

Only Red, Bebe, and the other boy were left. The way the blonde boy looked at him filled Stan with a flutter of apprehension. His head was tilted, upturned eyes framed with dramatic, arching eyebrows giving him an air of mischief. Trying to be subtle about it, Stan scrutinized the boy yet again for any speck of memory. He guessed his confusion was palpable on his face; both girls stopped talking and gave him funny looks. The blonde boy raised his eyebrows.

Red interjected sweetly in the growing silence, to Stan's appreciation. "I think I've got something to finish up inside." She glanced at Bebe, raising a telling brow. "C'mon, go with me."

Huffing dramatically, Bebe rolled her eyes and followed suit. "Today's been shit anyways," she said to the red-head. "I'm going to pass out on my bed, and God Almighty help the soul who tries to wake me."

Before she disappeared behind the door, Bebe snapped her fingers at Stan. "Don't think you're out of the woods with me yet, kiddo," she said, toying a smile, "but you've got damn good reflexes."

Then the door slammed, resounding in the silence between Stan and the boy. Stan looked and him, and sighed.

"Who are you?"

The boy's mouth opened in slight disbelief.

"Really?"

"Sorry dude, nothing personal. I just can't put a name to you. Were we, uh, in fourth grade together?"

The boy laughed. Scratching the back of his scruffy, golden hair, he smiled at Stan crookedly. "Take a guess."

"Aw, shit dude, don't make me do that."

"Why not?"

"I already feel like an asshole, c'mon."

"Humour me."

"I can't," admitted Stan, "I spent the last ten years of my life trying to forget the first ten. Like I said, it's nothing personal."

The boy's cajoling grin slid from his face. "Oh. Shit. I should have called that…" he murmured dolefully. He cleared his throat, regaining the cheeky composure that set naturally in his features. "But if you're going by my face, you're gonna have a hell of a time getting my name, I'll tell ya that."

Stan peered at him, examining every inch of his faced with a deliberate carefulness. It frustrated him, because every time he returned to the boy's eyes, there was nothing.

"Uh…I'm sorry." Stan shook his head ruefully. "Got nothing."

The boy's smile stretched wanly, unnaturally, and his throat bobbed like he was swallowing bitter disappointment. When he spoke, the words were somewhat peeved. "What the fuck, man?" he asked. "You remembered Kyle and Cartman. Sure, yeah. That's how it goes."

"Well, I'm sorry!" said Stan angrily. "I'm sorry I don't remember the face of every single fucker that ever lived here ten years ago. I mean, Christ, of course I'm going to remember Kyle and Cartman! They were my best friends. There was only one other kid that I-"

And Stan stopped, realizing the amazingly obvious truth right that had waited patiently under his nose. Suddenly it made sense, all of it. He gaped at the boy, speechless both in shock and anger at his own stupidity.

"Oh, no_ way_. _Shit!_"

Kenny McCormick laughed, his roguish features charmingly scrunched. "There it is."

Slack-jawed, Stan felt like an idiot. As a child Kenny had been unassuming and quiet, his face usually sheathed in swaths of clothing. The climate of South Park ranged from brisk to freezing, so it was more common to see Kenny's orange hood over his head than his actual face.

Now his light t-shirt fluttered gently in the breeze, exposing his neck and arms. His forearm was dotted with beauty marks, a constellation Stan had never seen on Kenny the child. His skin glowed golden, kissed hours beneath the sun. The seamless colour hinted at many days gone shirtless, which Stan thought was both careless and dangerously stupid. Kenny didn't seem stupid. He had eyes like a wolf, murky greenish blue and stunning. A queer feeling overtook Stan like worms in his gut when he looked into them.

"Kenny…" said Stan softly. "I…I'm so sorry man."

Kenny looked away. "It's alright."

Stan was awash with guilt. He didn't know what to say, but he felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and grip Kenny's shoulder. His palm tingled, but he kept his arms to himself.

"You wanna hear about Tweak, right?" said Kenny abruptly.

"Oh, uh, yeah." Anything to diffuse this awkwardness.

"'bout seven years back, zombies were everywhere. Still fresh enough to move around, and there were enough people passing through to get bitten. We used to hide out in the church 'cause it had a second floor for the bell. Y'know, zombies don't do stairs well. One day, a bunch of them got into the church and we all ran upstairs. There were more of us back then, and that bell tower's pretty small. We were all squished up there, but people were freaking out and, somehow, Tweak got pushed off.

He fell clean off the roof and hit his head, got knocked out. We all heard the thud, it was horrible. Watching him just…lying there, motionless. But there weren't many walkers around where he landed, they were all on the other side where Clyde had…" Kenny trailed off, clearing his throat.

"Anyways, some of the groaners heard the noise and changed direction. They got close, and this one really big one walked right up to him. I looked away 'cause, well, I didn't want to see Tweak's guts getting yanked out of him by some dead dick. But then people were gasping, and saying "no way" and shit like that, so I looked… and it was crazy. The zombies were just shuffling around him. One even tripped right over him, but it just kept dragging itself till it was upright and kept walking. Funniest shit I've seen in my life." Kenny snorted at the memory, his eyes off in the distance.

"None of us knew what to do, so we stayed in the bell tower. Eventually Tweak started to get up, and when he realized where he was I thought he was gonna piss himself. But then Kyle shouted at him to keep quiet, stay put and keep quiet. Tweak was shaking like a heroin addict, luckily he had enough sense to listen to Kyle and kept his mouth shut. He just sat there, trembling, while all these cold dead bodies bumped past him. Can't imagine how he did it.

That happened in the morning, and by the time the zombie's had cleared out the sun was setting. He got up and had this _look_ in his eyes, like he was staring a thousand miles away. Walked kinda funny, I mean, he was standing a _long ass_ time. But after that, it was nothing but questions when he got back to the bell tower. Like he knew what he was doing, fucking right…"

After listening to the story, Stan was amazed. "But he didn't. It just…happened." He thought of Tweak, even younger and scrawnier at thirteen, struggling to stay still amidst a sea of the undead. It was unimaginable.

"That's why he's still around."

"Yeah," confirmed Kenny, "He'll probably be the one to lead the raid into that abandoned camp. Grab the supplies, in and out, like it's nobody's business."

"That's…" Stan was stunned. The advantages of such a gift rapidly fired through his head, and he felt a burning jealousy towards Tweak. The boy probably had no clue what _power _he had, what an incredible advantage he had been so randomly blessed with. Stan thought back to the moments in his past where, had he been like Tweak, things would have gone much differently.

"Is, is there any way to, like, transfer it?" he demanded eagerly. "Like if someone wore his clothes or something?"

"Uh, kinda." There was a knowing smirk on Kenny's face. "Not his clothes, exactly, we tried that, but…there's a _process_… and it's really only available to Craig."

Stan's face heated. "O-oh."

"The effect only lasts like ten minutes though, then Craig's stench takes over again and the zombie's smell him."

_Damn_, Stan cursed inwardly. Not that he'd have been welcome to the idea of sexual intercourse with Tweak otherwise. It was just easier to eliminate the option now that the results were fleeting.

Kenny laughed. "Shit dude, you look so disappointed."

"I'm not!" protested Stan immediately, which incurred another round of riotous laughter from Kenny. Astoundingly, Stan found himself laughing too. He hit the blonde's arm with a friendly punch. "Shut your face!"

"Tweak's taken, man! I don't know what else to tell you."

"Fuck off!" Stan threw another punch.

Kenny guarded himself with his forearms, flinching from the harmless hits. "Defensive much? It's okay, Tweak's a bombshell. The way he screams his hiccups gives me chills."

"Oh right, i'll give _you_ chills," retorted Stan, falling easily into the typical banter of teenage boys. It felt good, natural. For the first time in a long time he wasn't calculating every step, every word, worrying constantly that one wrong move could be fatal. Words rolled off his tongue smooth as syrup, and when Kenny cracked up in response, it gave Stan a feeling of elation. He was floating on clouds.

Eventually Bebe came outside. "Supper's ready," she informed them, picking at the fresh bandaging wrapped around her bicep. There were already big, splotchy red stains steeping through the white material, but she didn't so much as wince when her fingers brushed over the spot.

Kenny pat Stan on the back in a friendly way, and led him in. "Anything good?"

Bebe snorted. "If there's anything at all, I'd eat it."

"That's reassuring," said Stan rather saucily.

The comment elicited another tickled grin from Kenny. Blonde curls bobbing, Bebe shook her head, unimpressed. "C'mon, losers. I'm fucking starved."

* * *

><p>Aah, 2015, we've finally arrived in the future.<p>

This extra long chapter is to make up for the last chapter, which barely tickled a thousand words. Thank you for your patience, I really appreciate it. I'm so happy you all think I'm just pumping out these chapters like bullets, it takes the stress away from me and I can write leisurely.

Thanks for reading, and have a wonderful start to your New Year!

Edit: accidentally had Kyle say "Butters" rather than "Leopold". Proofreading is a wonderful thing.


	14. Chapter 14

The setting sun cast a filtered dark blue to fill the shelter, punctuated by the flickering glow of several candlesticks. The other survivors were sitting in a cluttered circle around a big, metal stock pot bubbling with something thick and warm set on a heat-resistant cutting board. Spicy, meaty vapours poured into the room, steaming up the place. The scent pricked the back of Stan's tongue and his mouth pooled with saliva. Ike was chatting amiably with Butters, waving his spoon in the air with enthusiasm. Though the latter was quiet, he seemed to be receptive to the young boy's storytelling. It set in Stan a feeling of ease. Curled on a couch, Red nursed a bowl of the stuff, a book propped on the arm of the couch. Cartman dug in greedily, making eyes at Bebe when she walked by with her own cup. She made a noise of disgust from the back of her throat and turned away, to Stan's entertainment. Tweak was curled up against Craig, cupping a cracked mug with shaky hands. He stared intently into the mug's contents, ignoring Stan and the others as they entered the room.

Stan didn't care. He was preoccupied with imagining the contents of the stockpot flowing down his throat and filling his belly.

Kenny tapped his side. "Follow my lead." He led Stan to the corner of the store that must have been where the cash register and counter used to be. It looked like what Stan pictured it had before, but broken and cracked. Despite corrosion over time, what was left of the counters was glistening clean. Fishing around, Kenny pulled out two coffee mugs, a ladle, and a sugar spoon. When offered both, Stan took the ladle. Sure, he'd look like a starving animal scarfing down food in quantities larger than his mouth could fit, but it was better than shovelling rapid speed with a dainty-ass spoon that could barely hold a sugar cube. Kenny slapped one of the chipped mugs in his palm. He spooned Stan a ladle full of thick, textured reddish brown liquid, dotted with chunks of meat. Taking a bite, Stan was surprised by the sharp, exotic flavour, and he groaned uncontrollably.

"Wha' the fuck is this?" he asked, mouth full of delicious warmth. It made his eyes watery.

"Deer and onions probably," answered Kenny, mouth similarly full. "Wild onions. Ike's got a garden going out by the wreckage maze."

"Wreckage maze?"

"Yeah," said Kenny, taking another spoonful. "All that carnage in between here and the town is our zombie buffer. Kyle thought of it, took us a month to finish. Let me tell you, nothing shreds hands like rusty car parts."

Stan winced, adjusting the ladle in his fingers. "Does it work?"

"Oh yeah, especially for runners. It's like the glass door of mazes, they just run into everything straight on. Can't turn worth shit."

Stan laughed, and looked around the room. He caught Butters' eye, the soft-spoken blonde giving a tentative smile. Stan wanted to go to him and talk with him, let him know that he wasn't the type to hold a grudge. Besides, the blonde had been through enough today. For god's sake, he'd cried twice already. But Kenny was beside him now, and Stan felt reluctant to leave him. He enjoyed the easy going vibe, it was refreshing. Kenny hadn't brought up the past once the entire time they'd been reacquainted.

"Hey, how do you get on with Butters?"

Kenny frowned. "Who?"

"Uh, Leopold."

"Oh. Umm…" Kenny trailed off in thought. "Alright, I guess. Better in small doses."

Stan could relate. The boy certainly was high-maintenance, it seemed that Ike was the only one willing to be around him for long periods of time. Which made Stan a tick guilty, until he vehemently reminded himself that Butters was not his responsibility.

"And Ike?"

Now Kenny smiled broadly. "Fucking awesome. If all this shit hadn't gone down ten years back, he'd have cured cancer by now."

Stan agreed. Ike was sharp as a whip. It bothered him that Kyle didn't seem to see it, he trusted Ike so little. _How could he lock him up, _Stan wondered, _even if it is for his own safety? He's his brother, for fucks sake._

The thoughts reminded Stan of the infuriating discovery. Fresh rage surged through him, and he looked up at Kenny suddenly. "Did you know Kyle locks Ike up?"

The blunt question startled Kenny, who froze mid-chew. "Woah, where'd that come from?"

"I just gotta know man."

Kenny swallowed, looking rather ill. "I mean, _I_ don't agree with it. But yeah, he does. Whenever he leaves for a raid, he gets paranoid. He thinks Ike will sneak out if he's not around, which, as we've recently found out, is bullshit. Ike sneaks out no matter what."

Stan shook his head with disgust. He stared into his mug of meaty soup, no longer hungry. "Where is Kyle?"

"Don't talk to him man."

Stan looked at him sharply. "Why the fuck not?"

"Kyle does what he thinks is best. If you threaten that, then…I don't know what he'll do. No one really argues with him, except Cartman, but he's always looking for a fight so no one takes him seriously."

"So, what? Does Ike have any idea how to survive out there? Has he even killed a zombie yet?"

Kenny blinked, a peculiar confusion crossing his face. "I…I don't think so. Huh. Never thought about that before."

Stan leapt on this newfound information like wolves on prey. "Kyle's setting him up to be slaughtered! You should have seen him out there. When I bumped into him last night, I thought he was going to piss himself."

"I mean, he's smart, he can get himself out of a situation. You obviously didn't shoot him," defended Kenny.

"He didn't exactly do himself any favours," shot back Stan. "Kid's got a mouth on him. If I was someone else, I'd have killed him straight away and looted his shit."

"But you _didn't_," pressed Kenny stubbornly.

"What if he gets cornered? It will happen. Life doesn't always give you an escape route, that's why there are so few of us in this room right now," snapped Stan.

That shut Kenny up. His eyes darted around the room, and Stan realized that subtle ears were listening. The conversational buzz was gone, leaving Stan's last words echoing stiffly in the air. He decided he didn't care anymore. He raised his voice.

"Where is Kyle?"

Everyone fell silent. There was a clear reluctance to answer him. Evasive eyes, awkward coughs and throat-clearings. Butters looked utterly grave.

"Why do _you_ wanna know?" drawled Cartman, leaning sloppily into his chair. His eyes were so lidded they looked like slits.

"None of your fucking business." Stan was entirely sick of playing nice. It had been barely a day, and already his temper was pushed to the very brink. _Fucking people, man. _He saw Tweak curling deeper into Craig's armpit, shaking so violently that Craig's arm was jittering too. He really couldn't be bothered with the boy right now. Let him waste his gift. Let him watch everyone he loves get bitten and rot.

Cartman shrugged back dramatically, chins appearing in the folds of his neck. "You really should do something about that cactus up your vagina," he chastised Stan like a stupid child. 'It's triggering your PMS."

"Yeah, 'cause that's how it fucking works," called Bebe from across the room. "Shut the fuck up, moron."

"You first, stupid bitch."

Bebe thrust herself up, fists curled for a fight. Immediately Kenny raced over and grabbed her arms, gently pushing her back down. He murmured something in her ear, to which she spat a retort. Stan didn't hear. He didn't really give a shit about whatever petty rivalries coursed in the group.

He zeroed in on Butters, which may not have been fair, or even particularly moral considering Butters' fragility. The knowledge was too far back in his thoughts, drowned out by the pressing issue.

He crouched down, nose to nose with Butters. "You know where he is?"

Blinking rapidly, Butters had difficulty looking at Stan directly. Stan felt intimidating, with it a surge of power. He waited.

"Bad idea!" called out Bebe.

"Butters."

Butters winced. But Stan's gaze was unwavering. Without looking up, he mumbled, "…outside, in the town…he's working on scouting a second shelter…"

"_Where?_"

Finally, Butters surrendered. "The bank. He said something about the bank, but that could be wrong…"

Bebe sighed loudly. "See, Butters, this is why no one can depend on you for shit."

Butters shut down, eyes ceasing to avoid and now staring dead into space. Blank and robotic. Ike looked at him worriedly with big eyes, and that filled Stan with disgust for the blonde. He grabbed a shotgun leaning against the wall and went to the door. Hand squeezing the knob, he twisted and glowered at Bebe.

"Shut the fuck up."

Cartman guffawed.

Stan cocked the gun.

"Don't. Make. Me. Shoot. You."

And he slammed the door. Rage, anticipation, even fear, skittered through his body like cockroaches. He didn't know what to expect, and that scared him. _What sort of a person is Kyle?_ What had he become since fourth grade, to be able to lock up his brother, shoot off orders like a dictator, breath words that had the power to elicit silence and tears? Would he listen? No, he _had_ to. Stan was his best friend. Even now Stan felt an underlying bond with the boy, faded and torn, but there. Surely something in Kyle had survived. Stan was determined to find the last piece of humanity within him, dig it out with broken fingers and hold it, beating, raw, and wholly exposed beneath the bloody sky. Find that person he could talk with, laugh with. Pour his heart and soul into, and receive theirs in return. He had to. It had been so long.

So long.

Breathing shallowly, he clutched the heavy gun and broke into a light jog towards South Park.

* * *

><p>Ohh what's going to happen? Jokes, I already have it planned out. And it might be a little different from what you expect...and yes, it's another short one. But consider it build up for the next chapter, please.<p>

I also want to let you all know that I keep ahead of my published chapters by about 5000-8000 words, in case I get in a writing rut or life takes over. So while I do have a few things planned, there are definitely still a few different plots and events for me to decide on. It's so fun reading your predictions though, especially when the predicted part has already been written.

Thank you ever so much for your constant support, whether you review, follow, favorite, or simply read without even an account. I truly appreciate it.

Edit: Thank you so much to user Pen and Paper 71 for pointing out a typo! It's super helpful when you guys do this, don't be scared to leave a critique if you find something.


	15. Chapter 15

Even in the dark, it was easy for Stan to manoeuvre his way to the outskirts of town. The cool night touched his flesh, raising the fine hairs on his neck. He clutched the gun closer to his chest, an object of security. Still, he yearned for his baseball bat. He wondered where it was. That would be the next issue to resolve, after this night was over.

When he entered amongst the ragged buildings Stan's senses went hyperactive. Shadows flickered in the pale moonlight, taloned hands and jagged teeth. They didn't scare Stan. These shadows appeared so many times in his past, flooded in his memory. In the past when he didn't have shelter it was move or be killed, especially in the night. The crunching leaves were traitorous, his own shallow breathing the enemy in the dead silence. The whole world was out to get him; that lesson had been thrust upon him from a very young age. Couldn't trust a branch to hold you, a stone to protect you, a tent to hide you.

A person to love you. Even help you.

_He was thirteen, growing pains shooting through his limbs like splints of bamboo. Backpacking through the country, headed south where the winter nights would not bite and peel his flesh. Maybe Florida. He'd always wanted to go to Disney World. _

_Prairie after prairie, he passed "Welcome to Kansas". Dark figures dotting on the horizon, moaning and devouring the carcasses of cows. He ignored them. Tried to._

_Walked to the wooden schoolhouse, old and abandoned. Raised a pale fist, rapped the door. No answer, so he spent the night._

_Sun pounding through his eyelids, familiar lapping wetness on his face. Reaching up to feel living fur, seeing the large dog and the feelings that surged through him_

_Hey buddy, hey, good boy_

_He likes you_

_A man appeared at the doorway, arm intertwined with the woman next to him. Wooden crucifixes dangling against plaid, tied with something leathery_

_No fear surged through Stan. He hadn't learnt it yet. _

_Have some breakfast boy, you look starved near to death_

_Fresh fowl prairie rabbits cooked and warm in the mouth but bitter on the tongue_

_Very bitter_

_Too bitter_

_Like Mom's valium_

_but worse_

_And he saw their smiles_

_Right before his head hit the table_

_He woke up to the putrid smell of cooking flesh, rope tight as a fist wrapped around his body. Hands tied. Panic surging when he saw the roasting spit_

_the human forearm it speared_

_The dog wagged happily when the man threw him a finger charred black. Gnawed on it like rawhide. The woman tending the fire fervently, whispering the Lord's Prayer beneath her rotting breath. The fire made her face into a demon_

_Stan screamed_

_Being gagged, cloth cutting cheeks, metal blood running into his mouth _

_They held hands over the cooking arm_

_giving thanks_

_He gave us His body so that we would not hunger_

_he gave us his Blood so that we would not thirst_

_They toasted with wine glasses, staining their smiles red_

_Then the man advanced with the sleek gleam of a pocket knife in his fist, and Stan knew he was dead. But his body did not seem to understand. _

_Kick the man in the kneecaps_

_Get his knife_

_Loose his hands_

_And plunge into the soft tissue of the thick ugly neck_

_The dog growled, ears pressed flat, teeth bared in a snarl and attacked. Jaws sunk into Stan's arm and clamped like iron. The pain was hardly there_

_Stan killed it. The woman screamed and dropped her cup, staining the wood blackish. She clutched her veiny hand to the cross around her neck, raising it against Stan as though _he_ was the demon, the monster _

_Maybe he was_

_In that moment_

_He killed her too_

_And escaped while the zombies chewed their flesh_

As it was, there was little danger to find in South Park. In a sickly reminder of Gerald Broflovski, most of the zombies were too broken to be a threat. They littered the town like discarded puppets twitching on feeble strings. Harmless. Almost pitiful. The stench was awful though.

Stan felt invincible as he stalked the streets, covered by night's cloak. Every corner tingled a faint familiarity, and for a split second he entertained the notion that it was Kyle who had trespassed upon _his _domain. The thought eased into him as he tread silently, the metal shotgun tingling in his palms. He kept his finger carefully off the trigger. The gunshot would ring through the dark and give him away like fireworks. Kyle would undoubtedly hear it. Stan wanted to catch him unguarded. Perhaps if he wasn't surrounded by the group he'd led for so long, Kyle wouldn't be so damnably neutral about every-fucking-thing. It infuriated Stan that within the short time he'd been back he'd seen Butters cry, Kenny laugh, Tweak explode in irrational anger, but nothing from Kyle. He didn't even seem to care that Stan was alive. And that burned at him.

The bank was in the heart of South Park, but Stan found his way there with little issues. It was unimpressive, looking more like a license bureau than a place for entrusting valuables. He wondered why Kyle had chosen this, off all places, to stake out and make habitable. The temptation to call it a stupid idea, planting oneself right in the booming centre of a deadly ghost town, was thick. But knowing Kyle, there had to be an underlying reason. The last thing Stan wanted was to underestimate this familiar stranger. This unfeeling outsider.

The more he ruminated, the hotter the fire in his chest burned. It filled Stan with apprehension. If he let his emotions fuel the confrontation, he'd certainly lose ground. Kyle would zero in on that vulnerability and tear him apart.

It was a good while standing in front of the front doors of the bank before Stan entered. He monitored his breathing meticulously, in and out, forcing his nerves to relax. It was a practiced calm that settled in him, one that had cleared his head and saved his life countless times. Even now, he felt an intensifying clarity to the whirring cogs in his mind.

There no lights, except for one small flickering flame perched down the hallway around a corner. The air was thick with dust that cloyed up Stan's nose, forcing him to stifle dry coughs into the neck of his jacket. It smelled of old paper, the rich, spiced scent of dusty green bills. He heard the skin-crawling rustle of rats, tiny claws scratch-scratching over the wooden floor. One furry creature as big as his arm flashed glowing eyes at him before scurrying away, wormy tail swishing behind it. It made Stan wish fervidly that zombies would hunger for the diseased taste of vermin instead.

The front desk was vacant, waiting chairs empty and haphazardly scattered around the room. If Kyle was here, he had to be in one of the rooms down the hallway where the big metal bank safes were. Gathering determination, Stan stalked down the hallway. He cocked his head, waiting for the smallest of noises to give Kyle away.

_Thud_

Stan bristled. There was a doorway at the end of the hall, beige and inconspicuous. Hardly soundproof. Stan was certain that it was the origin of the sound, and as his attention gathered, he noticed the small noises as well. There was a bizarre gasping sound that escalated in hiccup-like bouts, as though whoever behind the door could not breathe properly. Like they were was being choked. Stan steeled himself. He swallowed, throat bobbing. This was it.

To hell with formalities. Stan stepped back and kicked the door open.

Too late did he see the red hair that shook with every trembling breath, head buried in spidery hands, the tears washing down a pale face as Kyle sobbed into the empty room.

Shock rooted Stan to the spot. Even as a child, he had never known Kyle to look so… so small. Broken, like a little wax doll. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, nose reddened and cheeks high with colour. Sitting in the centre of the empty room, a solitary candle illuminated half of Kyle's body with wavering light. It was thick and red, with aged mounds of melted wax folded over the base. Kyle sat in front of it as though it was a shrine, close enough to feel the flame's warmth. Save for the candle, the room looked as though it had been in the carnage path of a hurricane. Overturned desks, broken chairs, money scattered on the ground, a pasty grey colour in the dim light. There was a definite absence of things around Kyle, like a fairy circle of broken office supplies. It all faded into the background of consisted, muted shadows. Kyle's colour drew one's eyes like a moth to a flame, the candlelight giving him an unearthly glow. He looked fragile. Like a touch would shatter him into a million pieces.

Startled, Kyle flinched away from the door where Stan stood. Seeing it hanging from hinges, Stan's foot still hanging foolishly in the air, he hastily stood up without bother to wipe the shiny tears from his face.

"What are you doing here?" he said the words harshly, but his voice crackled like newspaper.

Stan was agape. He struggled for words, trying to remember why he had come all this way. For the grand confrontation, _right?_ It was wiped completely from his mind.

"Kyle, are you…I mean… you're crying," he said stupidly.

Kyle touched his face in awe, like he had forgotten. A hardness overtook his face. He looked at Stan, eyes red.

"Get out."

"Kyle, dude…" Stan tried.

"Get the fuck out."

"Okay," said Stan, anger evaporating. Seeing Kyle like this, he was in no mood to fight. He wanted to hit Kyle when he was up, not kick him when he was down. Not like this.

"I'll go back to the shelter and-"

"No." Kyle's head tilted, a snarl twitching on his face. "I want you to leave South Park. Get out."

The colour drained from Stan's face.

"But-"

"GET THE FUCK OUT!" Kyle roared, his entire body shaking.

The words stung Stan like a slap to the face. He winced at them, and when he did he thought he saw a shadow of guilt cross over Kyle's expression. But it was gone as quickly as it was made, so he turned and left.

Closing the door gently behind him, Stan leaned against the wall and sank to the floor. Hugging his knees, he breathed in and out. There was a terrible tugging at the back of his throat like a jabbed-in fish hook. His mouth twitched, then contorted without will into an open grimace as sobs racked through his body. He buried his head in his arms to muffle the noise, trying to get a hold of himself. Yes, he was furious at the boy. Yes, he had things he wanted to air out, the despicable treatment of Ike, the issue of Tweak. But the rage he had seen in Kyle was inhuman. Stan's own brand of anger was consuming and hot like a forest fire. But Kyle's ran much deeper, hidden finitely beneath a smooth cooled surface, sluggish as magma until it exploded in wrath, unable to remain concealed forever.

But what had set him off? Was it Tweak? Stan's arrival itself, or the argument with Ike? Over perhaps the overlooking issue that loomed like a distant fog, the undead horde Bebe had spoken of, that now had a living scent leading to the only living humans for miles around. Stan could not guess, nor was his head clear enough for it. The hot tears would not cease. To lose control like this in the middle of an infested wreckage was dangerous. It was stupid and it exposed weakness. But if that were true, then what exactly was Kyle doing?

Lost in thought, he sat until his legs were numb. There was a growing ache in his head, and his stomach writhed with worms. Not until Kyle had demanded it was the revelation clear to Stan; he did not want to leave South Park. His eyes were dried up, burning from having cried so much. He harshly rubbed at them with the heel of his palm. A rouge sob hiccuped its way up his throat. He mashed his lips down in retaliation, refusing to let another noise escape him. It was silly, ruminating on the floor in a pool of his own tears. This was helping absolutely nobody. But he couldn't find the will to pull himself up.

Stan coughed, his nose twitched. This building really was rotting. Ugly smells fumigated the hall, so strong he was surprised he hadn't noticed it sooner.

But he broke into chills the moment he heard the unearthly moaning at the front door.

He immediately tried to open the door, but the knob was stuck. Panic surged through him, and he pounded against the wood with enough force to shake it. The noise attracted unwanted attention, pushing Stan to flee, but he willed himself not to give up on Kyle. Not with a hoard of zombies drawing near.

"Kyle, Kyle open the door!"

There was no answer from the other side. The moaning drew nearer.

"Kyle!" shouted Stan, losing all patience, "Zombies! There are zombies out here, you gotta get outa there!" The argument between him and Kyle was growing stupider by the second. He pounded against the door one last time with all his strength.

"_Please!_"

For a sickening moment there was nothing. Then the door opened. Kyle did not look at him, but he grabbed Stan's arm and dragged him further down the hall, deeper into the building. Without a word Stan allowed himself to be led, giving himself in to trust the boy who had not so long ago told him to fuck off.

Kyle released him when they arrived at a broken window. He automatically stepped back like he meant for Stan to go first. Hesitantly, Stan clambered over the window sill. He dropped into the dank street, Kyle immediately behind him. There was unearthly groaning all around them, and they ran.

It was always worse in the dark. Without thought Stan intertwined his fingers with Kyle's for fear of separation. He guessed the other had the same idea, because he immediately felt a tight squeeze around his hand instead of the expected withdrawal. They silently stole down the street together, slowing in unison with each crescendo of howls and groans.

Down a street Kyle froze, jolting Stan backwards when a zombie lurched out from around the corner. Its head tilted in a mockery of thought and then, with horrific deliberation, turned sluggishly in Stan's direction. It staggered forward, slowed by a sickeningly twisted ankle, but still deadly. Stan gripped the base of his rifle with his free hand and swung it into the zombie's head. There was a crack like a dropped egg and the zombie fell. It choked off a few guttural growls before Kyle crushed its ugly skull with the heel of his boot. There was no time to survey the damage, the inhuman calls in the night air urged Stan to keep moving.

Assuming the lead, Kyle held onto Stan's hand as they ducked and weaved through South Park's broken terrain. Voices echoed all around them, closing in. There were no words exchanged between them, partly because Stan could think of nothing to say. That familiar prick of fear was back, shooting up his veins with fire and squeezing his heart with a painful, metal glove. Another zombie staggered horrifically close by them, then another. They milled about in all directions, seeming to multiply in number like spiders pouring from eggs. Stan forced himself to keep his finger away from the rifle's trigger; it would be certain doom if he were to accidentally pull it.

Kyle's eyes glinted hard in the moonlight like metal, the sharp profile of his nose illuminated as he twisted and turned in search of an escape route.

"There," he whispered, pointing to an old fire escape hanging off one of the apartment buildings.

Stan instantly knew what Kyle was formulating. If they could make it high enough they could travel by rooftop, leaping from building to building. Utterly out of the zombie's reach.

"It'll make a hell of a noise," said Stan, eyeing the heavy metal ladder.

"We got no other choice."

Kyle knelt down and picked up a large piece of rubble. He weighed it in his hands for a moment, then whipped his arm back and chucked it far across the street. There was a resounding smashing of windows followed by an uproar of moans as zombies turned and lumbered in the direction of the noise.

The fire escape ladder was still high above their heads. Stan made an effort to jump and grab it, but he fell ridiculously short. He turned to Kyle and crouched, lacing his fingers together.

"I'll boost you."

Kyle moved quickly, placing his hands on Stan's shoulders and leaning on them with his entire weight. He was so scrawny it felt more the weight of an alley cat than a boy to Stan. The rough edge of his boot found Stan's palms. Kyle looked squarely at Stan and nodded. Without missing a beat Stan bolstered the boy up with so much force he became airborne for a split second. He saw Kyle's outstretched hand snatch the bottom rung of the ladder, releasing it to the ground. Screeching metal and a loud clanging when the rungs hit the ground drew the zombie's attention, dead eyes gazing blindly towards the conspicuous noise.

Without hesitation he climbed, imaginary teeth grazing Stan's ankles as he ascended. The fire escape led to the highest floor, only a small jump upwards to the roof. Stan's muscles burned as he hauled himself over the ledge and onto the rooftop. Kyle jumped up, grunting with effort as he tried to grip the roof too. Stan could see his thin arms tremble violently, before the grip slipped and Kyle fell off.

He looked up at the ledge with determination, made a running jump and missed again. There was a moment of panic on his face until Stan reached down.

"Grab my hand, I'll pull you up."

Kyle looked mildly surprised, but relieved. He accepted the hand and scrambled up and Stan pulled. Stan wondered how many times Kyle had done this on his own, scaling through the town and carving out escape routes in the situations that presented none. It was a hell of a lot easier when there was two of them; that was certain. Stan found he preferred the presence of another human, especially one who was brilliant and competent. Finally, in this world of rot and decay, someone was rooting for _his_ survival. At least, he hoped Kyle felt that way.

Here, above the chaos and the noise, the night seemed almost peaceful. The sky was a rich, dark, inky blue, the moon a pale crescent glowing. Stan peered down to find zombies all around, peppering the town. It would be impossible for any of them to reach the rooftop. They were safe for now.

"Probably came from the forest," surmised Kyle as he squinted into the darkness, panting. "Loads of survivors go there, thinking that it's safe there because it's far from civilization…but it's not. They all die and crowd up the forest, sometimes we get the overflow."

"Will the others be okay?"

"Should be," said Kyle. "They know to go to the roof if the herd comes their way." He surveyed the surroundings, and then sat down to Stan's surprise. "We shouldn't move 'til dawn."

Stan agreement. "Yeah, I'd prefer being able to see two feet past my nose with those sons of bitches running around." He hesitated, then set the gun down carefully. The new dilemma that faced him was not one to be handled with firearms. He had enough social grace to know that. But there were still questions on his mind.

"So, back there. What was that, man?"

Or perhaps not. Kyle pricked at the question, even in the dark Stan could sense tension building. But in the calm it was easy for his anger to ebb back, and he wasn't going to let Kyle dance around his questions like this night never happened.

Stan waited a beat, then reiterated the question. "I'm pissed at you. I'm fucking appalled at the way you've been running things, treating Ike. So do yourself a favour and show me that there's a goddam sliver of humanity left inside you. Why the tears?"

There was a stony silence, and for a moment Stan was worried he'd pushed too far. But then Kyle spoke.

"It's stupid."

The comment made Stan frown.

"What, why?"

Kyle was curled into a ball, staring purposely at nothing.

"You cannot tell anyone." The words quiet, but still commanding. Stan shrugged them off. "Those people…they respect me. They depend on me, they need me to be strong. Do not endanger the hierarchy of the group, or you will be leaving South Park come dawn."

"Yeah, yeah, okay. No problem."

He sat next to Kyle, not quite facing him. He didn't want to scare this new, vulnerable Kyle back down the rabbit hole and have Big Commander Douche Bag take his place.

In the silence he could hear Kyle's lips part.

"It…It was my dad."

Stan's heart stopped.

"He'd turned a long time ago, but I could never shoot him. I'd see him, walking around, and sometimes…I could imagine that he was still…still alive. Like he was still watching out for me. I'd come here when things at the shelter went south, when Ike was angry with me, or someone did something stupid…I'd come here and find him and I'd…I'd talk to him. Whatever it was, he- ah-" Kyle broke away, stubbornly stifling an incoming sob with a loud sniff.

"-he'd listen. There was a part of me that liked to think he was still in there, the real him, just not in control of his body. That way he was still with me. Even when he started rotting, I hid him in a garbage bin. No one scavenges those, so I-I figured he'd be safe. But today, he was…."

The words trailed off into the starry sky. Cloudless, beautiful. But inside all Stan felt was ugliness.

_I did that._

It was all too fresh, and suddenly the memory swooped down and took Stan hostage. He could _feel _the metal weight of his old bat, remembered the swing in his muscles. Gerald's dead eyes stared at him relentlessly, accusingly. He realized that they were a perfect reflection of Kyle's, but empty and white.

A shiver ran down his spine. The night suddenly was cold, blackness enveloping him and crushing against his chest. He felt as though he would vomit.

"You okay?"

Kyle was looking at him oddly, with something like regret.

"I should've said anything…shit…" said Kyle, moreso to himself. "…Forget it. Just forget it, you don't need my life story."

Stan's mouth was bitter.

"Kyle, I-"

"No, stop." The words were heated, Kyle's authoritative ringing ebbing back. "The issue's dropped. Go, rest, I'll keep watch."

The urge to speak was unbearable, but cowardice won Stan over. Biting his tongue, he took heavy steps to the other side of the roof and lay down. The shingles were anything but comfortable, but they pricked him not half as much as the guilt stewing in his chest. It reminded him of a story his mother had told him long ago, about the little men who lived in everybody's hearts. Most of the time the men slept, but if somebody did something wrong, the little man that lived in their heart would wake up. With a sharp stick he would poke the heart, over and over, until the wrong had been righted.

A child's lesson in guilt, but equal in power to a rock being smashed over Stan's head. He buried his head in his arms, as if that would shield him from the thoughts that peppered at him like hail. There was no way he was falling asleep, even if he wanted too. The growling undead were too close, and besides, he was curious as to what Kyle would do while Stan was supposedly unconscious. If he did anything.

It was a long time of laying still, ignoring the tingling of numb muscles, until Kyle shook Stan 'awake'.

"We gotta get moving."

* * *

><p>Please consider this extra long chapter as an apology for my absence! School has started, work has started up again, and wouldn't you know it- my computer got a virus. It was two days of sweating and nail chewing and, of course, accidentally deleting Microsoft Word from my computer. But everything's sorted out, and I recovered all my documents, so I'll be back to updating every two to five days. Oh god I hate being stressed out. Please excuse me while I go drink a gallon of tea and treadmill through a season of Orange is the New Black.<p>

Thank you so much for your patience, thank you for reading, thank you for your feedback. The opinion of another human being is absolutely invaluable because it's one of the few things you cannot provide yourself with.

Have a lovely day!

Edit: Typo fixed!


	16. Chapter 16

Feigning a stretch and a yawn, Stan stood up. He followed Kyle to the edge of the roof, where the morning sun was just breaking over the horizon. Beautiful yellow and pink streaked the sky, but Stan had seen plenty of sunrises before. Kyle side-eyed him shadily, but as long as he didn't bring anything up, Stan wouldn't either.

With the unannounced vow of silence binding their tongues, the stubborn boys leapt from rooftop to rooftop until before them loomed the ancient grandness of a ruined apartment store. It reached stories over their heads into the sky like a beanstalk, but utterly unclimbable. Kyle pursed his lips, his expression smooth and analytical.

"The alleyways will be less infested, but still deadly. Be sure to keep on your toes."

The overly-worried command tempted Stan to grumble before he remembered he was not speaking to Kyle. He merely nodded and leapt over the ledge, landing as softly as a cat in the torn up streets. In a beat he heard Kyle landing behind him, his fall less practiced and more flailing. It was strange to think the word _pampered _during this reign of the undead, but Kyle had fallen into the luxury of a constant home with loyal survivors to aide him despite any hardship. Stan had relied upon his baseball bat and his wits.

The difference to their gaits was palpable too, Stan moving swiftly while Kyle hesitated around every corner. In this uneven manner of travelling they arrived at the edge of the town, leaving a wide stretch of land and sky between them and the shelter. As they approached, Stan could see that the wreckage maze was tangled with zombies. They were impaled on car parts, ensnared in traps, or simply too stupid to move beyond a dead end. Animalistic moans and grunts filled the air, giving to crescendo as Stan and Kyle drew closer.

Kyle flung out his arm, stopping Stan.

"I need a weapon."

_Finally_, thought Stan as he searched their surroundings. Moving without baggage was good in times of flight, but when it came to a fight Kyle would be useless.

Apparently Stan was more creative in terms of weaponry than Kyle, because when he handed the latter a rusted garbage lid he received a queer look.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" asked Kyle incredulously.

Lips still obstinately locked, Stan wordlessly thrust the rifle into Kyle's arms instead. The latter's eyes widened with surprise, but before he could protest, Stan was off.

He held the garbage lid like a shield as he advanced. Spying a familiar glint of metal on the ground, Stan stooped down and retrieved a carpenter's nail, so big it had to have been meant for heavy projects. It fit like a shiv in his hands. With this, he could afford a more direct approach, as banging zombies over the head with a reverberating garbage lid would undoubtedly attract attention.

When the first zombie turned towards him he plunged the nail straight into the zombie's eye socket, bursting the lifeless orb there and squirting sour smelling fluid on Stan's face. Looking back, he saw Kyle gaping at him as though he were insane.

Such a look ought to have earned Stan a cocky surge of arrogance, but he felt empty instead. There was no kindling for the fire to catch. It was unsettling, but it also kept his head clear as he stalked up to the next zombie. With a swift stab to the temple the corpse fell, not even having the time to gurgle.

Finally out of his stupor, Kyle caught up to Stan. He eyed the fallen zombie, the precise wound made by the blood slickened nail. There were thoughts visible on his face, but the present demanded Stan's attention, so he reluctantly ignored Kyle.

There was a cluster ahead, five or six zombies scrawling over one another in a dead end of tires and wooden boards. Delicately stepping over a dead zombie with its skull snapped by a bear trap, Stan's mind raced through possibilities. He could start a chase, lead the zombies out of the maze and get them spread out. That would make it easier to kill them, plus lessen the risk of getting bit. He could ignore them and bolt to the shelter for help. Sneak up and take them all out with the rusty nail. That would be risky.

Before he could make up his mind Kyle crept next to him, fixated on the cluster. He nervously glanced over to the shelter.

"We gotta kill 'em," whispered Kyle. "They'll break down the maze. Even if we kill them all afterwards, repairs would be too risky. At least 'til the rest of the zombies are cleared out of the town."

He then pursed his lips and gave a high whistle. Very slowly, the zombies turned and stumbled towards Kyle. The air was full of grotesque snorts and snuffles as the zombies caught his scent, noses raised to the sky.

Stan always suspected that Kyle was crazy, but he never would have guessed suicidal. Now the boy had a horde on his scent, and Stan was not exactly jumping to tango with six zombies. So instead he scrambled up the maze wall to look down at the zombies. The wall of boarding and car scraps was unsteady, but if Stan had confidence in one thing, it was his balance. He leapt down behind the cluster as it shuffled towards Kyle and drove the nail into the nearest cranium. The rest were unsuspecting, infatuated by Kyle's living scent.

He took a hasty step and thrust the nail into another's neck. _Shit_. He'd thrust it too deep. Embedded in the zombie, the nail was unobtainable as undead flesh enclosed all sides. But that was why any self-respecting survivor always carried a Plan B.

There was a resounding _clang_ when Stan swung the garbage can lid at the next zombie. As he expected it didn't drop dead immediately. Neck grotesquely crooked, it lurched at Stan. He shielded himself. The garbage lid caught its bite, breaking teeth characterised by little clacks and snaps. Stan pushed forward and ran the zombie into another, crushing both of them against the maze. They both snapped at him with greedy jaws, but Stan held his footing. He turned to Kyle.

"Take 'em out!" urged Stan.

Kyle raised the rifle, and Stan nearly shit himself.

"No! No, idiot, quietly!"

_Crunch_

Kyle drove the metal barrel of the rifle through one zombie's forehead. Arching a brow, he gave Stan a look.

"I wasn't born yesterday dude," he said with the barest hint of a smile.

Kyle swung back with the rifle butt again, ready to slam it into the remaining zombie. But with a sudden burst of inhuman strength, the undead monster shoved against the garbage lid and sent Stan reeling. He stumbled backwards, the garbage top clanging as he lost his grip and sent it crashing into the wreckage. He looked up just in time to see the last rogue zombie sink its teeth into Kyle's arm.

Tearing away the flesh there.

Dive back in for a second bite.

He moved without thought. Stan hurled himself at the zombie and plunged his thumbs into the soft eyeballs of the undead monster. He pressed until he could feel the squelchy, ruined brain against his thumb pads, them pressed further. Moving rapidly so as to scramble the zombie's mind until it dropped stone cold dead at his feet.

Gasping for air, Kyle lay on the ground. His face was drained of colour, but his eyes were so, so alive with fear. He clutched at his forearm where the bite had peeled away at his skin. Shiny, soft red muscle was exposed, but Stan didn't take a second to survey the damage. He scooped Kyle into his arms, light as a child, and ran for the shelter like the Hounds of Hell were after him. It seemed ages before he finally scrambled up the front porch, Kyle growing paler, his shirt getting sticky with blood.

"I need a knife!" screamed Stan when he kicked open the door to the shelter. Immediately the room was thrown into chaos when he revealed Kyle, limp and pale. Stan lay him on the floor. Best to give him a hard surface as a backdrop, to make things easier.

"What the fuck happened?!" demanded Cartman angrily. "You killed him, didn't you?! You _fucking murderer_!"

"No, shut up idiot!" shouted back Bebe, "Stan, what the fuck is going on?"

"He got bit, someone get me a fucking knife!"

"Wait, what happened to Kyle?" Ike's tiny voice was filled with disbelief as he ran over to see his older brother. "Why isn't he awake?"

Stan was breathing heavily. His patience was worn.

"_A FUCKING KNIFE!"_

Quickly, with much fumbling, Butters scrambled over to Stan with a machete.

"W-will this work?"

"Yeah. Alcohol."

Ike watched him, terrified as a rabbit.

"W-what are you going to do?"

"Save his life," responded Stan.

Kenny was next to him suddenly, and an old bottle of whiskey was set beside Stan. Everyone was crowding now, imposing in on Stan's space, but he wasn't about to waste the five seconds telling them to _move the fuck back._ He poured the whiskey over the sharp blade and turned to Kenny. Out of all the faces here, Kenny's impish features were the most trustworthy to Stan.

"Hold his arm out, don't let him move it."

Kenny swallowed, looking sick. But he followed Stan's orders.

"Oh God…are you gonna…" mumbled Butters paley. "Y-you're gonna…"

A guttural cough wracked from Kyle, silencing everyone in the room as Stan's fingers felt for the connective tissues beneath the skin of Kyle's shoulder socket. Once the familiar indent between bone and socket was found, he raised the machete and brought it down with all his might.

"_Oh my God!_"

Stan ignored the outbursts, the horrified shouting and calling. He raised his arm again and sliced again, going through soft tissue and muscle like he was chopping firewood. He willed himself to not look at Kyle's face, Kyle who surely was coming back to his sense in all the pain.

In a heartbeat Ike was beside him, cradling Kyle's head with his hands. "It's gonna be okay," he hushed as Kyle's eyes opened. "It's okay, it's okay I promise."

The expression on Kyle's face snapped from confused to terrified. He stretched opened his mouth in a wretched show of pain, but before the scream could work its way up his throat Bebe stuffed in a balled up shirt to muffle it. Her face was determined, gritted with discomfort as she held the cloth there firmly. Kenny looked similar, cold sweat dampening his light shirt. Red and Cartman both hung back, fixated on the amputation. Red's face was wrought with fear and concern, but Cartman seemed almost fascinated by the display.

Stan clenched his teeth and braced himself. There was only a thread of muscle left connecting the arm to the shoulder, and Stan was immensely relieved to see that the spurting blood was a dark red. With every hack it sprayed him, Kenny, Ike, anyone else in the splash zone. Though he struggled to keep his face calm for Kyle's sake, Ike's expression slowly grew horrified. Kenny was breathing close-mouthed, seemingly intent on not puking all over Stan's surgery. Bebe's hair was quickly becoming the shorter, stickier version of Red's.

The metal smelled filled the room, and with an exhale of exertion, Stan sliced through the final tendon. Then, before anyone could protest, hopefully before Kyle realized what was going on, he grabbed the whiskey bottle again and splashed it over the freshly bleeding, raw stump.

The roar ripped out of Kyle's lungs like he was possessed. His entire body twitched violently while Stan cut through the rest of his shirt and cast it aside. Sweat and tears leaked over Kyle's face as he howled. Stan looked around wildly.

"Did no one think to grab some _fucking bandages_?"

Red burst in exclamation, "We don't have any, we ran out years ago!"

"Then something clean!"

She thought for a moment, before dashing from the room. When she returned she held a billowing mass of bed sheets in her arms. Stan took them and began shredding them into clinical strips. Kyle's posture faltered. Stan motioned at Kenny, who was still holding the blackening severed arm and looking rather queasy.

"Prop him up."

Kenny did not need to be told twice. He dropped the severed limb and hurriedly did as Stan asked while Stan wrapped the sheets around Kyle's torso, covering the stump and stopping the blood. It took several layers before Stan was satisfied with the patch job. Kyle's head flopped in front of him, again unconscious. Stan scooped him up and set him gently on the nearest couch, stump up to help the blood clot.

Rarely had he ever felt so relieved. Now that the deed was done, it was like the entire room had released a breath. Kyle's naked chest was moving, up and down. His lips were parted, eyes closed. He was still terribly pale, but not deathly so, and certainly not tinged grey as so many of the zombies were.

Bebe broke the silence.

"So he got bit. And you cut his arm off. And I _helped_ you."

Stan nodded. "He'll be fine when he wakes up. Weak, but good."

"Does that work? Cutting it off?" asked Kenny, still stunned.

"If you do it quickly enough. And you have to cut off enough, not just a few inches above the bite."

"Damn…" Kenny glanced over at Kyle's sleeping body. "That was intense."

"How did you know?" asked Red demurely. "I mean, you really looked like you knew what you were doing."

The question stirred up another face from Stan's memory. Not so long ago he'd ran with another group of survivors, a little too ruthless for Stan's tastes. But they were intelligent, and taught him valuable things about living in the apocalypse.

"Doesn't matter, they're dead now."

"Who?" asked Kenny.

"Old friends."

Ike was clutching Kyle's remaining hand like a lifeline, holding it close and crying softly. Cartman was uncharacteristically quiet, pouting at nothing in particular. Shaking her head, Bebe went to the entrance of the shelter.

"I gotta…I gotta go clear my head." She opened the door, pausing to look back. "Anyone wanna come?"

"I'd go _anywhere_ with you," purred Cartman as he smirked blatantly at Bebe's figure.

"This is so _not _the time you fat shit," spat Bebe. "Anyone else?"

Nodding, Red snatched a shovel from the weapons pile and joined the blonde. She turned to Stan.

"Give us an hour, okay?"

Stan nodded and the girls left, Cartman lumbering stubbornly after them. Bebe could handle herself, and Red seemed competent enough. Cartman was disgusting and hateful, but the looming possibility of death was too fresh to wish it upon anybody. He didn't blame the Bebe for wanting to leave. The room reeked of blood.

Very shyly, Butters approached Stan. He eyed the sticky red stains with fear, like they were inclined to rise up and bite him.

"I-I suppose we should clean that up, huh?"

"Yeah, yeah, good idea." Desperate for a distraction, Stan accepted Butters' proposal. He noted Kenny, who stood like a statue, fixated on Kyle's severed arm. When he saw Stan, a faint reminder of his trademark trickster smile donned his face.

"D'you think we ought to keep it? I mean, for Kyle's sake. He might miss it, he seemed awfully attached to it."

Stan laughed, especially when Butters shuddered involuntarily at the implications of Kenny's words.

"One less thing for the zombies to attack him for. It's the way of the future."

Kenny smirked. "Right. Cut off all your limbs, there'll be nothing left for the zombies to chomp! What could possibly go wrong?"

Butters still looked pale, so Stan nudged him.

"Dude, we're joking. It's cool."

"But it's so horrible," said Butters quietly. His baby blue eyes were wide with tainted innocence. "He's missing his arm, and, and you're joking about it."

Giving Stan a knowing look of annoyance, Kenny zipped his lips with a gesture of his hands and raised his eyebrows. Turning his back on the two, he strode towards Ike and began talking to the young boy instead.

Kenny's withdrawal left Butters looking even more forlorn. It urged Stan to speak, something of comfort for once.

"Yeah, losing your arm, it sucks. But that's life. We saved Kyle, and yeah, there were some consequences…but there are always consequences. May as well get a good laugh out of them, 'stead of letting them eat you up. Hell, some days, that's the only way you survive." Stan laughed bitterly. "Life's one big, cruel joke. You're supposed to laugh."

Butters was silent in thought. He still seemed slightly troubled, but not so shocked or offended as he had been. That was enough for Stan to dismiss that issue because, after all, there was no point in focusing on the negative and holding grudges. He peered around the room.

"Where's Tweak and Craig?"

"Uh, in the sleeping room," answered Butters. "Tweak needs to sleep a lot, otherwise he gets…worse. And he can't sleep without Craig. They're, uh, heavy sleepers."

Stan frowned. Tweak was such an erratic, dependant creature. With his flyaway hair and perpetual under-eye bags, he fit the part of the alien perfectly. Weird, curious, something to be avoided, Stan decided. It was apparent that Craig was no fan of his. Tweak himself had been cordial, but his risky behaviour was too much for Stan to overlook.

"Will he be okay?" Butters glanced over at Kyle, too scared to look at him outright.

Stan shrugged. "There's nothing else I can do for him. Ike's with him. That'll be enough."

He followed Butters to the bathing area, where they each carried a weighty bucket brimming with water and several clean rags. To Stan's chagrin, there were no cleaning supplies to be spoken of left in the convenience store. Though he supposed that was to be expected. They soaked the large stain with water and scrubbed, creating a transparent red to tinge the floor rather than the ugly brown. Stan steeled himself and did the work, but he could see Butters becoming visibly queasy. The blond was turning a greenish colour, looking very much seasick.

"Hey, Butters, take a break," ordered Stan. He didn't want to have to clean up vomit as well.

Without so much as a protest, Butters fled the room. Kenny watched him go from the couch, absently rubbing a sleeping Ike's back. Ike, who was cuddled up to Kyle like a puppy on the narrow sofa. Kenny was seated on the floor, leaning upward as there was no room for him. Gingerly, he withdrew his hand and crept over to Stan, picking up Butters' discarded rag.

"Y'know, you're a natural leader," said the handsome boy as he scrubbed the floor.

Stan snorted. "Is that code for asshole?"

Kenny laughed quietly so as not to disturb Ike and Kyle.

"No, not at all dude. You kept a cool head. Back there…I couldn't have done that."

"Done what?"

"Hacked a guy's arm off to save his life, I don't know! You got everyone to do what you needed them too, and the result is that Kyle's still breathing. We wouldn't have known, that bite would've killed Kyle if you weren't here. You…you cheated death." concluded Kenny, awestruck.

Stan continued to scrub. He hardly felt as extraordinary as Kenny made him out to be with Gerald Broflovski weighing on his mind.

"I knew what to do, that's not leadership. That's just…knowing things. It's not special."

Shaking his head, Kenny smiled. "Sure thing buddy."

They scrubbed in silence, the only noises coming from the soft, sleeping breathes of two brothers curled up together on a single couch. Kyle's arm was wrapped protectively around Ike, who burrowed into the soft warmth of his brother's chest like a rabbit. And like it couldn't be helped, Kyle's armless shoulder was poised as if to curl around Ike too.

* * *

><p>I have been dying to post this part for so long you have no idea. Yeah. So yeah. Kyle's got his arm chopped off. Holy shit, I swear I didn't plan for that to happen. Honestly, spontaneous writing is just magical sometimes.<p>

Thanks so so much if you've stuck around after sixteen chapters of this, I do appreciate it so so much, as I'm sure you know if you've read every single author's note up to the sixteenth chapter. Now that I'm making the chapters longer, it may take longer for me to pump them out. Hopefully the tradeoff will be worth it.

Have a lovely evening!


	17. Chapter 17

The water in the metal buckets was considerably redder after the countless wringing of blood soaked rags. There was a good warm sweat built up on Stan's forehead, weird in the sense that it was due to physical effort rather than sheer terror. He and Kenny had cleaned what they could without words, so as not to disturb Ike and Kyle. The brothers still slept on the ratty couch, and Stan had been keeping note of Kyle's breathing. He didn't want Ike to wake up cuddling a corpse. And he didn't want Kyle to die either, not if he was being truthful with himself. Definitely not until he came clean about what had really happened to Gerald Broflovski. Perhaps it was a selfish motive, but everyone else seemed to be benefiting from it. Ike had a brother, and the rest of them had a leader. _The greater good and all that_, he thought. Guilt was a curious feeling. Stan wondered at why he cared so much.

With a satisfied final wring of his cloth, Kenny flopped backwards to lay down on the floor, arms spread like a snow angel.

"Shit, I haven't cleaned a floor since I was ten. Housework, man. It'll be the death of me."

There was little room left in Stan for humour, but he smiled anyways.

"That's funny."

"I know," said Kenny as he threw his rag into the bucket of bloody water. He gestured to Kyle. "D'you think he'll be alright?"

Stan shrugged. "He's got to be. Otherwise you're going to have a power struggle on your hands."

"Y'know, if it's a matter of leadership, you could always…"

"No. I'd get you all killed."

"Fine, fine." Kenny held up his hands in surrender. "You remember that when this place is burning and Cartman's eaten all the food."

The image was all too easily conjured to Stan, and he shuddered.

"What about you?" asked Stan, picking up his bucket. "As far as I can tell, you're the sanest one here."

Kenny chuckled and followed Stan out the door. Together they overturned the bloody water into the soil in front of the shelter.

"Think any poppies will grow?"

"What?"

"Poppies," repeated Kenny. "Like Flanders Fields. So many soldiers were killed there that their blood mixed into the soil and caused millions of poppies to grow. Something about the iron, I think."

"Doubt it," muttered Stan as he watched the soil soak up the murky water. "If that was the case, there'd be poppies all over the place."

His words sobered Kenny somewhat, who frowned and stared into his now-empty bucket. The two boys left the buckets outside and went back into the shelter in a considerably thicker tension. After a beat, something caught Kenny's attention and he managed something like a half-smile.

"I'd like lilacs better. They smell nicer."

"Thanks Kenny," mumbled a sleepy voice as Ike rubbed his eyes and yawned sleepily. "I'll start on another patch for the front yard soon…just…after winter passes."

Stan became immediately alert, but he kept his voice calm.

"Hey Ike, how're you doing?" he asked softly.

"…Good…will Kyle be okay?" Ike's voice was still sluggish from sleep, but full of concern.

"He'll be fine," answered Stan instantly. "The worst of it's over. He's managing the blood loss really well, it's good he's getting some rest."

A look of content settled over Ike's face. He resettled himself beside Kyle, who still seemed dead to the world.

"I'm so happy…you found me in that church," said Ike.

A warm feeling filled Stan, like hot chocolate on an icy winter's eve.

"Yeah, me too Ike."

"Me three, Ike," imitated Cartman as he sauntered into the room, tailed by a furious Bebe and accusing Red. "So what's up, boners? Kylie bleed out on us?"

"As a matter of fact," said Kenny as he rose to face Cartman. "He's going to be fine."

"Hah! Right. Even if he did survive Stan's hack job, he's fucked. What the fuck is he gonna do to the zombies with one arm, wave at them? Cause he sure as fuck can't kill them."

"You shut the fuck up about my brother." Ike's voice was low and shaky with emotion. "He's gonna live now, and he'll live a long time after too because he's smart. Smarter than you, you prick."

The cruel humour dropped from Cartman's face, and his eyes darkened.

"What did you just call me?"

Bebe laughed and tossed her hair. "What are you, deaf _and_ stupid?" She strutted past him, taking Red's hand and pulling her along.

"C'mon, I'm sick of this bastard."

In silent accord Red followed. She smiled kindly at Stan, and then rather shyly at Kenny with a tinge of pink in her cheeks. As she passed Ike on the couch, she ruffled his hair.

"He'll be fine, Ike. You can trust Stan, he's done a good job."

Her voice was soft and sweet, and though the words were not directed at him they tickled in Stan a sense of pride. Ike grinned broadly and cozied closer to his sleeping brother, sitting against him rather than lying next to him. He hugged Kyle's arm like a child clutching a teddy bear, carefully leaning away from the bloody shoulder.

Cartman watched the girls leave sullenly. "Fucking lesbians," he muttered once they had left the room.

Stan decided that he would rather put what energy he had into Kyle's wellbeing instead of fuelling Cartman's tantrum. He put a hand on the sleeping boy's forehead.

And withdrew it with a start when Kyle's eyes fluttered open.

The first thing to flit across Kyle's face was confusion. He blinked slowly, head thick and fuzzy from blood loss. He tried to prop himself up, but the bandaged stump of his shoulder slipped deeply into the cushions of the couch in the absence of his arm and he wound up falling into the armrest. Immediately Ike reached for Kyle.

"Kyle, Kyle you're okay," exclaimed Ike, full of relief. Kyle stared at him, features knit together in laborious thought as he pieced together what had occurred during his unconsciousness.

"…Ike…"

He reached forth to clasp Ike on the shoulders. He faltered and froze when only one arm extended itself. Then he looked to his side, where the blood-soaked bandages wound over the bleeding stump on his shoulder.

No one breathed a word. With an expression of stone, Kyle placed his hand on the reddening spot. A single, rattling breath filled the silence.

"Need a hand?" jeered Cartman.

Never had Stan wanted to strangle another human being so badly. "I swear-" he muttered as he stormed towards the despicable boy, fists clenched. Kenny made as though to hold him back, but thought better of it.

"Stan, don't."

Only Kyle's voice could have pulled Stan from his blinding rage. Reluctantly, he stopped in his tracks.

"As a matter of fact, I do need a hand. Cartman, come over here," said Kyle, his tone unreadable.

Looking confused and more than a little disappointed at the lack of reaction, Cartman slowly ambled over. Stan gawked at Kenny, who shrugged back equally confused.

Ike immediately protested. "No, I can help you! Lean on me!" he stood up and tugged at Kyle gently, but the older brother remained seated. He waited for Cartman to draw near till he rose, the offset of his balance making him wobble precariously. Seeing this, Cartman smirked. Kyle concentrated, stilled himself.

**_SMACK_**

And promptly punched Cartman's fat face.

The hit had so much momentum that Kyle toppled forward, Ike catching him seconds before his nose crushed into the floor. Cartman reeled back with a yowl like an angry cat, landing smack on his rotund bottom.

"_Shit, you motherfucker!"_

"You can rot in Hell," Kyle's face was bloody murder, his voice a dark storm as Ike helped him to his feet. "Before you make me feel like anything less than what I was before."

Cartman was bawling and clutching at his cheek, which sported a nasty looking red mark. The look of fury he sported was absolutely humourous. Kenny outright laughed, clutching his sides as he doubled over.

"Dude-dude oh my god- that was-the _best_!" Kenny's voice cracked as roaring laughter took over his words.

Stan was awestruck. In wake of having his arm crudely chopped off not two hours ago, Kyle had to be in serious pain. Then, confirming his cognition, Kyle gasped in agony and shut his eyes. His body curled and tensed, and Ike looked up to Stan nervously.

"What should we do?" asked the dark haired boy, arms flung protectively around his brother.

Stan assumed order, striding towards the writhing boy on the floor. "Get him back on the couch, but gentle. Gentle! He's going to be in serious pain for the next few days."

They lay him gently back on the ratty couch, armless shoulder up so there would be as little pressure on the wound as possible. With every movement Kyle inhaled sharply, trying and failing to conceal vehemently biting against the inside of his cheek to swallow the hurt. Ike winced with every breath, and his touch grew lighter and lighter until Stan was certain he was supporting Kyle's full weight, leaning him against the frayed cushions that held very little softness since the years past. Kyle would not look at him even as he carried him, a look of shame shadowing his eyes. He kept drifting towards the spot of amputation, then abruptly darting away, as though the mere act of looking at the wound incurred it to sting.

"You were bitten, you know." Stan found himself unable to look at Kyle when he said the words. His own sense of niggling guilt prevented it. "I wouldn't have…done it…unless you were going to die. You know one bite's a death sentence."

Kyle was silent. Then he wretched his head forward, stifling hisses of pain with an ugly grimace. "Kenny, Cartman. Take up watch. We need eyes up there-_ah_-at all times."

Like a dutiful knight Kenny moved immediately for the door. But Cartman lay like a useless lump on the floor, thick hands splayed over his face like a child, unresponsive to Kyle's command. Kenny faltered when he saw that the large boy was unmoving, and looked at Stan incredulously. _Can you believe this guy?_

Revolted, Stan stormed over and kicked Cartman with a very small amount of restraint. "Get up," he said, with all the inflection and mannerisms of talking to a pile of shit.

Slowly Cartman righted himself upwards. He remained uncharacteristically quiet, but glowered hotly at Stan as he tromped to the ladder and climbed upwards sourly. Stan watched him go, a gradual fury building in his chest. Then Kenny leaped on the ladder and swung upwards like a monkey, giving Stan a gleaming wink before he disappeared over the rooftop, and some of the heaviness in Stan was lifted.

Now that it was just the three of them, the room seemed much larger and very empty. There were so many things Stan wanted to say, but he didn't know where to start.

"Kyle, I-"

"I know it was you."

"W-what?"

Shifting in an attempt to find comfort, Kyle rested his head in his arm. "You would...have wanted to put him out…of his misery."

_Oh._

Ike stared at Kyle incredulously. "What are you talking about Kyle?" he asked nervously.

Kyle closed his eyes. There was a finality on his face, weariness aging him, and a terrible, terrible tiredness. Not the sort brought about after excitement or blood loss, but the tiredness of an old man who had seen more than he had wished in life, and who had exhausted everything he had ever wanted from it.

"Kyle?"

Stan put a hand on Ike's shoulder, but it offered little comfort. He gazed upon Kyle's pale face, still and silent, but awake. Another troubling thought crossed his mind.

"Did Ike know? Kyle."

Kyle did not answer. _Stubborn ass._

Stan took a deep breath, and dove into the heart of the conflict.

"If you don't start treating Ike like an adult," said Stan, making the words a threat, "then I will. He _deserves _to know these things. God, how could you keep his own father from him?"

"Shut u-"

"What? What is he talking about?!" Ike spun around, utterly bewildered. "Dad? What about Dad? Is he-"

"No," said Stan quickly. He didn't want to fill Ike's head with that kind of hope. "No, he's…he's gone."

Ike's face fell. "I already _knew_ that."

"Yeah," said Stan carefully. "But did you…did you know that he was still a zombie? Until recently, I mean."

Ike was growing frustrated and angry. "Well, yeah, what else would he be?"

"Dead, or, uh, inanimate I guess. Whatever it's called when the brain gets destroyed," explained Stan unhelpfully, feeling foolish.

"Kyle, why is he telling me this?"

There was fear in the question. But Stan had never heard Ike sound so severe.

Kyle had caught the intonation too. He opened his eyes. Eased himself up, and Ike did not protest for him to lay back down. The boy was deathly serious, so serious that the previous near-death matter held no weight in the present. His blue eyes were fixated on Kyle's green, grass and sky staring endlessly into one another. Kyle licked his cracked lips.

"I'm not working on a second shelter. Not yet, at least. I was…visiting Dad."

Ike squinted. "Dad's dead."

"I know, I knew…"

"Then why? You were visiting his zombie?"

Kyle was expressionless. He looked at Stan. "Do I have to do this?"

Stan did not honour him with an answer. Kyle sighed, pressed his lips into a thin line, looking very much like he regretting that little slip of the tongue to Stan, and then continued.

"It was only, _only_ when I felt overwhelmed. I talked to him. Pretended that he was listening. Christ, Stan, why does he need to know this? He's not alive…this isn't going to change anything."

"Maybe not. But he's your brother, he deserves to know."

"You_ talked_ to it?" said Ike, looking upon Kyle with growing unhappiness. "Why…why didn't you just come to me?"

Kyle shook his head, regretting his words. "No, I'm not going to push my problems onto you. You're too young."

Ike shut up, his mouth pressed into a hard line. He swallowed whatever response that had leaped into his throat and looked to Stan helplessly.

Stan took hold by the reins. He wasted no time in snapping and setting off with breakneck speed.

"For fuck's sake Kyle, he's not _stupid_!"

Kyle startled, mouth open with a retort, but Stan plowed right through him.

"Ike's got more brains than half the people surviving here put together, he's brave enough to look for food at night, and he'd be able to do more if you fucking _taught him how to do shit_. He's your brother, but you treat him like a toddler, for god's sake. What's he gonna do if something happens to you? What if you got bit down in South Park, alone? What if I wasn't here to cut the bite off and you turned? Answer me."

Kyle did not. He couldn't.

_ "_Ike's got you, which is a damn sight more than most of us got, but you're not protecting him, shutting him up like this. You're digging his grave."

There was more Stan could have said, but he decided to leave it. Losing an arm in itself was trauma enough for anyone to undergo in a day. This was a delicate game he played, tapping at Kyle's weak spots with well-placed words. The aim was to bend his will, not break it. Even now he was worried he had pushed too far. Kyle was silent now, almost blank, like the person behind his eyes had vanished.

"Is that…how you feel?" Kyle looked at Ike, all authority drained from him. Rather, the words were full of astonishment.

Ike averted his gaze, bit his lip nervously, then looked back up. Stan noticed that while Kyle lay down, he and Ike were exactly the same height. Ike took a breath, and with what must have been a flinging leap of faith, spoke.

"Kyle, I love you. I really do. But you think I'm stupid, you don't trust me with _anything_, and it really, really sucks sometimes. You make me feel like I can't do anything right, and I'm trying, _really hard_, I read books and I grow food and-" Ike's voice rose tremulously, "I _want _to help, but whatever I do, it's _never good enough_, and I _hate_ it. I want to be like Red and Kenny and Bebe and fight zombies and save lives. I-I want to be like _you_, for as long as I can remember, but… but you make me feel like I just c-c-ca-"

Ike's words dissolved into sobs, his eyes red and watery.

"Y-y-you make me feel like I _can't._"

Stan quietly backed off from the situation. This had gone too personal for him to interject now, even he knew that. _Finally Marsh, you got yourself some fucking social graces. _He certainly didn't want to speak for Ike now that the kid had finally found his voice, and he definitely did not want to push Kyle any further. This whole damned ordeal was like doing ballet on a stage littered with land mines.

Then Kyle's single arm reached out and rested in Ike's hair, ruffling it gently. He had to lean forward for the gesture, something that surely cost a great deal of effort. Ike was quivering, tears washing down his face even harder at the touch. Then, suddenly, he flung forward and hugged Kyle hard, clinging tightly with thin arms.

"_Ah!"_

Kyle wracked and stiffened with pain, squeezing his eyes. Ike withdrew swiftly.

"Sorry, sorry!"

"No it's okay," said Kyle quickly, patting his arm clumsily around Ike and bringing him close, but gingerly. "It's okay Ike."

Ike let his arms curl around Kyle one at a time cautiously, then let himself sink into the embrace like soft bedding. His face buried into Kyle's shoulder, who was held him as close as he could bear. Kyle's eyes glistened suspiciously, and Stan was almost certain that his lip quivered for a split second, but after a moment Kyle patted Ike and pulled away to address him in that leaderly fashion that was so accustomed to Kyle's person. But this was different. He looked softer, his eyes weren't so cold.

"Stan, do you mind leaving us for a moment?" The request was just that; a request. "I…there are some things I need to tell Ike. I've got to tell him I'm sorry. Properly. Privately."

"Yeah, sure." Stan managed an awkward smile and wave as he backed out of the situation. It was stiff and formal, but Kyle's intentions were utterly genuine. Ike had a look on his face like he was watching the sun rise for the first time. Stan felt content. He reached the ladder to the roof when Kyle's voice addressed him once more.

"Stan, be careful. And…thanks."

The warm feeling that filled Stan spread a smile across his face, and he paused with his hand on the closest rung. "For sure, dude."

* * *

><p>Finally, the talk!<p>

That is the longest hiatus I hope to take throughout this story! Sorry about that! I don't mean to turn this section into my own personal diary, but this week was quite stressful with schools and work, and after a few days of fluctuating craziness, I'm back on track.

You're reviews and reading this mean so much, seriously, I get a little nervous flutter every single time I get a review notification. I'm so grateful for you guys who read and encourage my work, like it's beautiful, I thank you all so much. Writing and posting has become apart of my schedule, which has helped me in my daily life more ways than I can count. It's absolutely great to be posting again.

On a lighter note, I recently watched the episode "Last of the Meheecans" and Kyle was the leader of the "Mexicans" against Cartman's "Texan Boarder Patrol". I'd completely forgotten! I'm happy that the choice to make Kyle leader was canon as well!

Edit: Pen and Paper 71 you are my typo champion!


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